


Missing

by Kitmistry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brady as in Ava's fiance not Sam's friend, Christmas Fluff, Depressed Sam Winchester, Detective Dean Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Eventual Happy Ending, First Dates, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Journalist Castiel (Supernatural), Just to avoid some confusion, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Lost Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Murder Mystery, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Past Reletionship, Post-Break Up, Sam Ships It, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, mention of past child abuse, not a lot of people know about him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 93,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: Two years ago Dean Winchester broke his heart. Now he's at Castiel's doorstep, asking for his help, but there's nothing Dean can say that will convince Castiel to listen.Or so he thinks.Faced with the news of Sam's disappearance, he decides to put his anger aside and follows Dean to a rural town in Nebraska, where they end up tangled in the missing girl investigation Sam was looking into.With an unknown threat closing in on them and all the things left unsaid between them about to be revealed, Castiel and Dean race against time to find Sam before it's too late.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Inias (Supernatural), Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 177
Kudos: 450
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's time for another Pinefest, and I'm so excited to share this one with you. 
> 
> For this year I had the pleasure of working with [Whichstiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel), who created all the amazing art that accompanies this story. The masterpost fot the art can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23700625) or in Whichstiel's [ tumblr](https://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) [ here ](https://whichstiel.tumblr.com/post/616022737184522240/this-art-was-created-for-kitmistry-s-pinefest), so don't forget to give her all your love. I'm sure you're going to love everything as much as I did.
> 
> And now for credits: A huge thank you to my two betas, [ captainhaterade ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhaterade) and [mrs.hays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrshays), who took the tangled mess I had in my mind and somehow made a story, who looked at this over and over again to fix my mistakes and plotholes, and who added half the commas you see. To [Deancebra](https://deancebra.tumblr.com) and [Fangirlingtodeath](https://fangirlingtodeath513.tumblr.com) for helping with my summary, and, of course, my partner in crime, [PieDarling](https://zelirocks.tumblr.com), who is my biggest support and always there to listen to me rant.

“Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not.”

― **Donna Tartt,** **The Secret History**

_October 2019_ _  
_ _Two Days Missing_

Castiel’s muscles are burning. Throat parched, he pushes on—faster, farther away—until the heaviness of his feet and the burning of his lungs is the only thing he can feel. Or think about. When he runs it’s easy to forget about everything weighing him down, but today his brain is stuck in the same loop. Today, when Castiel woke up hours earlier than he should have, body warm and mind foggy around the edges, he was still stuck in a dream. A dream of half-awake murmurs early on a Christmas morning, of the hum of a rock tune over a sizzling pan, memories of happier times.

But inevitably, when Castiel allowed himself to bask in the warmth of the past, he opened a floodgate and allowed all the pain and regret to come in, too, and drench him in all the anger he’d thought was long past him. Clearly, it isn’t. And now Castiel can do nothing else but run, and hold on, and wait for the storm inside him to end.

It’s for that reason that when Castiel rounds the corner of the street and jogs up to his apartment building, he thinks that the black ‘67 Impala waiting for him is just a memory. A daydream that he'll blink and will be gone, disappearing like a mirage in the desert.

Castiel blinks once, and the car is still there. He blinks a second time, and it still hasn't disappeared. For the first time in two years, his heart skips a beat.

He only needs ten seconds to pass by the car, get to his door and forget this ever happened. The driver spots him and steps out of the car, throwing the lapel of his leather jacket up against the frost of the early morning.

Castiel almost trips, breath caught at his throat. This exact gesture—the way the fingers brush the leather, the chin that rises just a bit, the angle of the shoulders—has played behind Castiel's eyelids hundreds of times. And now he has the live version right in front of him. He comes to a slow stop, muscles screaming from the strain of running that extra mile and begging to be stretched. 

Castiel just stands there, panting. 

The man shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s nervous and doesn’t want to be the first to make a gesture of acknowledgment. Castiel knows that because he knows Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester is a little piece of shit.

Dean, throughout all the years of their… acquaintance, had been a stubborn mule. He’d shuffle in the bedroom after one of their fights, cranky and annoyed because Dean Winchester’s way was the only right way, and how had Castiel dared insinuate there was an alternative route. But because Castiel could be just as headstrong, if not moreso, Dean had been forced time and time again to reach out first for reconciliation. And he’d hated it. The same way he hated knowing he was wrong.

Still does, judging from the slight clench of his jaw as he stares Castiel down.

Technically, with coming here, Dean _is_ taking the first step, but Castiel won’t make this easy for him. As a matter of fact, if Dean showed up when Castiel was old and grey, it’d still be a few years too soon for Castiel to forgive him. Which is why Castiel turns around and walks to the entrance of his building without saying a word.

He thinks he hears Dean curse under his breath, or maybe it’s just muscle memory from all the times he's heard Dean do it when frustrated. Then footsteps echo behind him, and Dean catches up with him. He presses his hand across the door, blocking Castiel from opening it.

Castiel stubbornly keeps his eyes on the lock.

“Cas,” Dean starts before his voice dies out.

A perverse satisfaction wells up inside Castiel. Finally, there’s no witty comeback or smart one-liner. There's nothing left to be said between them, and Castiel made sure Dean knew that when he walked out of Castiel's life two years ago, breaking his heart into a million pieces.

“Move,” says Castiel. It’s not an order. Μore like a tired plea. He half-expects Dean to stand his ground, but he doesn’t. Dean swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. He drops his arm, takes a step to the side.

Guess the one thing Dean is not stubborn about is Castiel. No, on Castiel, he gave up pretty easily. How could he forget that?

Castiel fumbles with his keys until he finds the right one, unlocks the door. He’s ready to go inside and jump in the shower, scrub any memory of this meeting away, but Dean isn’t done tormenting him yet.

“Cas, please,” he whispers.

Against his better judgment, Castiel turns to look at him. Really look at him. There are the same green eyes where Castiel used to lose himself. The same light brown hair. The same dusting of freckles across Dean’s nose, but… Dean’s swimming in his old leather jacket, which used to fit him like a glove, once. And he looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes and a grayish tint to his skin that does no justice to the beauty that is Dean Winchester.

Something Castiel thought long dead stirs inside him. He shouldn't— _fuck, what is he thinking?_ —but he holds the door open.

Dean startles, mouth falling open. Realizing Castiel can change his mind at any moment, he rushes inside. He follows Castiel up to his apartment.

Waving vaguely around, Castiel says, "Get comfortable," before retreating to the safety of his bathroom. He takes his time. Dean has waited so long to show up again, he can wait a few more minutes. Heart hammering in his chest, his brain goes through all the possible reasons Dean Winchester thinks it’s a good idea for him to be here. He comes up with exactly zero. Or at least zero reasons that end with anything else but heartbreak for Castiel.

With his soft pajamas and an old hoodie on, Castiel finds Dean standing by the window, tracing the empty sill with his fingers. A lifetime ago, he would have called this normal. Not anymore.

Dean glances around the room, and Castiel knows what he sees. Or rather what he doesn’t see. The spaces where Dean’s books used to be now filled with new crime novels, the ones Castiel likes. The empty side table that used to have a picture of the two of them sitting on it, which Castiel had thrown out of the window in a fit of rage. All the corners and surfaces, like the window sill, that used to be lined with succulents that Dean hoarded like a possessed person. Castiel threw half of them out when he drowned them in too much water and the other half when he forgot to water them altogether. There’s still one lone survivor in the bathroom. Dean doesn’t need to know that. 

Dean’s eyes dart between these places, and Castiel is hit with the realization that this is the first time he’s seen them. Dean never came back after their last fight. It was Sam that collected his things, with a tight smile and pity written all over his face. Castiel had forgotten. 

He shudders. The room feels a lot colder, suddenly. “I suppose this is not a social visit,” Cas says, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. 

Dean jumps a little. A hundred emotions pass over his face as he turns to Castiel, too fast for him to recognize any of them before they settle into determination. 

“I know things didn’t end well between us—“ 

“That’s an understatement.” 

“—But I need your help.” 

“Of course, you do,” Castiel sighs, sitting on the couch, gesturing for Dean to take a seat himself. 

He’s not surprised. It’s so... _Dean,_ showing up with his tail between his legs after years without so much as a word when he needs something. 

Dean slides to the other corner of the sofa, keeping a careful distance between them. He licks his lips, a nervous habit Castiel still sees in his dreams. “Sam is missing, and the police won’t help me.” 

Castiel quirks his head to the side. “How long?” 

“Almost two days. Last time we talked was Saturday night.” 

It’s Monday now. It dawns with fluffy clouds and a rosy sky. 

“They said I can’t file a missing person report from a different state if I can’t prove I was the last person to see him,” Dean continues through gritted teeth. He rubs his palm over his knuckles, in a gesture Castiel has seen him do hundreds of times when angry. 

Dean should have known the police wouldn’t help him. He probably thought he still had friends that could pull a few strings for him. Clearly, he doesn’t. It wasn’t just Castiel he cut out of his life back then, though unlike Castiel, his friends and old colleagues at the police were the ones to turn their backs on him and not the other way around.

“And you think I can help you,” Castiel finishes for him, his stomach a tight knot of nerves. Stupid. Castiel is so stupid for letting Dean get to him after all this time.

“Will you?” Dean asks.

Castiel rubs a hand over his face. “Dean, I’m not police— “ 

“But you _can_ help me,” Dean insists, scooting closer. Not close enough to touch. 

“I’m just a journalist.” 

“You can’t, or you won’t?” Dean spits out, fire burning behind his eyes. “You’ve done this before. Hell, Cas, you used to spend more time at crime scenes than me.” 

Castiel used to spend time at crime scenes _with_ Dean, but that’s beside the point.

“And what do you want me to do?” he shoots back, louder than he intended; Dean has always been incredibly talented at pushing Castiel’s wrong buttons. “Pack up and go on a road trip with you because Sammy didn’t call you?” 

Castiel gets up and paces around the room. He needs the distance. He needs to keep his cool.

Dean follows close behind him. His familiar scent floods Castiel’s nose, making it difficult for him to concentrate on anything but the bitterness stuck in the back of his throat. 

“You know Sammy,” Dean says, and there’s pleading laced through his every word. “He wouldn’t do that. He always calls me.” 

“But he’s done this before, hasn’t he?” Castiel snaps. He knows a few of Dean’s buttons, too. 

The effect is immediate. 

Dean’s eyes darken, and he stands with his back straight. With all the weight he’s lost, Castiel is definitely stronger, but Dean fights dirty, and he has a good track record of taking down guys much bigger than him when pissed off. Castiel had pulled him out of a fight once or twice. This is the first time he’s ever thought Dean might actually hit him, though. 

“That was different,” he growls, and Castiel has to fight every instinct in his body telling him to take a step back. He doesn’t. 

“Dean, I know about Jessica.” 

His words hit right on target. Dean flinches back, and it’s only because Castiel knows him so well that he can see he’s hurt him. 

“My condolences,” he adds in a softer voice, and despite all the promises he’d made to himself, he can’t look Dean straight in the eyes. Learning about Sam’s fiancé and her car accident happened by chance, but despite everything that went down between him and Dean, Castiel always liked Sam. He thought of reaching out back then, but like with everything concerning Dean, he’d been scared. 

He’s scared now, too.

“You don’t know anything about Jessica,” Dean spits, hands curling into fists at his sides. “Or Sam.”

“I know Sam has a habit of running away when he feels cornered,” Castiel counters, his voice steady against all odds. “Isn’t that what he did back when your father didn’t want him to become a lawyer? He ran away and got himself into college, anyway.”

A small vein vibrates in Dean’s temple. “That was different,” he repeats. 

Castiel shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Like I said, I can’t help you.”

Dean raises his jaw defiantly. It’s his cue to exit, and he reads it as such. He spits a low ‘thanks’ before leaving without another word. 

Immediately, Castiel is at the window, counting internally the seconds until Dean will appear in front of the building. He watches as Dean stomps back to his car, his heartbeat frantic inside his ribcage. He doesn’t know what he is waiting for, until Dean pauses before opening the door. He looks up to lock eyes with Castiel. 

Castiel counts one and a half breaths before he comes to his senses and darts back out of view. By the time he dares another peek outside, the Impala is long gone. It’s just Castiel and his pulse hammering inside his ears.

The rest of the morning is breakfast, a late coffee, and a long phone call with Billie, his editor. Then there’s a lot of staring at an empty word document on his screen. 

Then checking his notes.

And more staring.

He fights with himself for a good three hours before he has to admit that there’ll be no writing today. No matter what he’s been telling himself, seeing Dean again has rattled him, thrown him off his game. Maybe it’ll be better if he just takes a break and comes back to his manuscript with a clear head. Billie might have torn him a new one if she knew he isn’t working, but as long as Castiel meets his deadline, he figures he’s safe. Hell, the book isn’t even the important part. The important part was finding that poor man’s killer, and Castiel did that.

He used his contacts in the police to get access to the crime scene, spoke to witnesses, and followed every lead he could find. He was the one who’d finally managed to make the victim’s wife crack and admit she killed her husband with her lover’s help. A cliché maybe, but the case is solved, and clichés sell better. Castiel couldn’t have asked for a better promotion for his book than the frenzy the media stirred once the details were released to the public. Cases like this are always the ones he chooses to turn into novels because they need little change to keep the reader guessing. His article has already been sent to the newspaper he works for, and he only has to write the actual book.

On his bookcase, displayed side by side, stand his previous two novels, both based on murder cases Castiel helped in the investigation of. The first one is arguably the most popular one. It’s also the case that he was working on when he met Dean. 

The two of them used to be a good team and had worked on plenty of cases together, though only that first one became a book. It’s why Dean came to find him after all this time, Castiel is sure.

His fingers hover over his keyboard.

Just one tiny look won’t hurt, will it? Just for a second.

He opens his browser and navigates to Sam’s Facebook page. The first thing he sees is the younger Winchester’s profile photo, one from his engagement party, with his hand wrapped around a dashing blonde. And right underneath that, endless messages of condolences.

He rubs a hand over his mouth, before clicking on the profile photo and clicking next. Sam was never an avid user of social media, but all his greatest moments are forever preserved here. His engagement, a trip to Barcelona with Jess, his graduation day. 

Castiel pauses, eyes glued to the screen. 

In the photo, Sam is throwing his cap in the air. Dean has an arm thrown over his shoulders. They’re both blurry, caught in the middle of a motion, but the smiles on their faces are as bright as ever. Dean was happy here.

Something bleeds inside Castiel.

He shuts his laptop down. This is not healthy. Stalking his ex’s brother online is not healthy.

But there’s this thought stuck in the back of his mind. Yes, Sam had run away before, but from their father. Not Dean, never Dean. Would losing the love of his life break Sam so much that he’d abandon his brother? Somehow Castiel doubts that. He knows Sam. Once upon a time he’d have even called him a friend. And sure, Sam is a hard person to get to open up, but not with Dean. Even when he’d shut everyone out, Sam had always let Dean in.

So, if Dean can’t get a hold of Sam, something terrible must have happened.

Castiel springs away from his seat. This is a dangerous path he’s walking down. This is not healthy for him. The only thing he can get out of this is bitter disappointment. Castiel’s already lived through that once already, he doesn’t need to again, thank you very much.

But…

Jesus, but if things are serious enough that Dean had to come find Castiel… Fuck, what has Sam gotten himself into? 

Castiel paces. He ran until he could hardly breathe this very morning, but he feels jittery. Like he’s ready to vibrate out of his skin. 

Sam Winchester is missing.

Sam, who always had Castiel’s back. Sam, who didn’t prolong Castiel’s suffering and gathered Dean’s stuff as quickly and silently as possible. Sam, who once upon a time asked Castiel to take care of Dean while he was in California. 

The clock tells him it’s still early. He could curl up on his couch and watch Netflix until he’s braindead and has forgotten all about Dean, and he could try writing again after he’s had something to eat. This is the best course of action, he knows it is.

But Sam’s face from the engagement photo is stuck behind his eyelids. Dean’s weak voice is stuck in his ears.

_Please, Cas._

He stares at his phone. He stares at it some more. A sense of foreboding settles heavy over him, opening a deep pit where his stomach should be. 

He’ll never manage to concentrate. 

He’s made the decision before he realizes it fully. He has the phone in his hand. He hesitates, though he knows there’s already no going back. 

_For Sam,_ he tells himself.

_For Sam._


	2. Chapter 2

_November 2015_

There’s yellow tape swaying with the gentle winter breeze, one end of it stuck to the front door of the house. Somebody must have broken it while coming and going from the crime scene. There are a few cars parked along the street, but none of them are police cars. There’s no movement inside the house that he can make out.

Castiel stands across the street from the dark building, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night. His contact at the police station texted him the address a couple of hours earlier but unfortunately couldn’t get him inside. This time, he’ll have to do it on his own. 

Careful to stay away from any street lights that might give away his presence, he waits to see if the building is empty or not. So far, the street has been quiet. Only a few neighbors returning home late in the night. Just to be sure, he waits another ten minutes.

He steps over the yellow tape on silent feet. The light from the street behind him floods the entryway, making the broken shards of glass on the wooden floor glimmer. Carefully, he steps around them. He doesn’t want to mess with the crime scene. He only wants to have a closer look at it. Maybe take a couple of pictures.

Following the path the police have marked out for officers to use, Castiel goes deeper inside the house, gazing at the family photos hanging along the hallway—the victim on her wedding day, her nephew’s first birthday, her parents in front of the Colosseum. 

The stairs creak when he tries to step on them, and Castiel freezes, cursing at himself. 

The house remains silent around him. The only sound is his heartbeat. 

He presses on.

The door to the master bedroom is open, and even from the hallway, Castiel can see the stripped mattress, the blood staining the wall. He finds the flashlight he always carries with him, and when he reaches the door frame, the light glides over the gruesome scene. It’s not the worst he’s ever seen—there’d have to be guts hanging from the ceiling to be close to the worst—but it still makes the hair at the nape of his neck stand. The room stinks of death.

Something cool and round touches his temple, and Castiel has to fight against every instinct in his body to keep from jerking away. The barrel of the gun is barely pressed against his skin, but the click of the safety catch changing position is loud and clear in Castiel’s ear.

“Hands up,” a deep voice says.

Castiel complies, making sure to keep the flashlight raised. “I’m just a journalist,” he says.

The man steps out of the shadows, but the gun never moves away from Castiel, so he can’t turn his head and take a better look at the man threatening him. He can only make out the shape of him from the corner of his eye.

“Do you have proof of that?” the man asks.

Castiel nods. “There’s my ID in my right pocket. I can get it for you.” 

He makes a show of slowly lowering his hand, giving the other guy plenty of time to protest, and when he doesn’t, Castiel reaches in his pocket and grabs his wallet. He passes it over and waits.

The man hums as he takes the wallet with his free hand, checking to see what Castiel has in there. Finally, the gun is lowered, safety replaced. It returns back to its holster at the man’s hip.

“You can drop your hands now,” the man says, taking out a flashlight of his own to squint down at the ID. “Casteel Novak? Am I saying that right?”

“Castiel, actually.” Without the threat of a gun at his head, Castiel can finally turn and take a better look at the man. He has light brown hair, a straight nose, and wide shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, but his badge is clearly visible pinned against his belt. A homicide detective. If Castiel plays his cards right, this unexpected meeting might end up playing out in his favor.

“And what are you doing in my crime scene, Mr. Novak?” The detective returns the wallet, turning his flashlight to point directly at Castiel’s face.

Squinting, Castiel hunches his shoulders, deliberately making himself appear smaller and powerless. Not that he needs to try that hard. Though he works out regularly and is proud of his physique, his trenchcoat covers much of his bulk, and since he’s a few inches shorter than the detective, their height difference will create a false sense of control in the other man. Hopefully.

“I need a good story to write about," he says, dropping his eyes to the floor, trying to seem embarrassed and nervous. "I don't want to get in trouble."

If he’s lucky, the other man won’t recognize his name off the top of his head and won’t know murders and missing-persons cases are Castiel’s bread and butter. 

"Well, shit, buddy. There's no faster way to get in trouble than to walk around crime scenes without permission." The detective chuckles. The light pointed straight at Castiel makes it hard to read his face. The other man is nothing more than a shadow. He doesn't sound pissed off, yet, though.

"Can I get permission?" Castiel asks. "Just to take a couple of photos. My editor is putting a lot of pressure on me." Which is true in a way but has nothing to do with Castiel being here tonight. That’s his own curiosity about the crime scene. The pictures are just a bonus.

"Sorry, pal. No can do," the detective says, a fist resting against his hip. His hand is close to his gun again; just because it's hidden under the man's jacket, doesn't mean Castiel has forgotten about it. "Come on, I'll escort you out."

He turns towards the door as he speaks, his flashlight turning with him. His face is cast in long shadows, no longer hidden behind a curtain of light. His brow is furrowed with determination.

Castiel has no choice but to follow the detective's direction as he holds a hand out, urging Castiel back out of the room. The crime scene is a lost cause for tonight, and he knows it, but the wheels inside his head are still running. There's always something he can gain out of situations like these.

"And what are you doing here in the middle of the night?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

The detective raises an eyebrow at him. "Is that a question or is that a _question?_ "

"I'm not sure what this means."

"Are you making small talk, or will I find my words printed all over the news tomorrow morning?" The detective keeps two steps behind Castiel but makes sure he lights the way for both of them as they climb down the stairs. 

"Anything you say will stay between us," Castiel promises. _For now._

There's silence behind him. Like the detective is not sure whether to believe him or not. In his shoes, Castiel wouldn't. 

"Shit, why the hell not?" the detective says at last. "It's not like it's some secret. I wanted to see the house at night. Like the killer saw it when he broke in."

They round the corner of the hallway and reach the front door. Castiel pauses, turning to face the detective. "You wanted to step in his shoes for a night."

"Helps me see some details I would have missed otherwise." The detective turns off his flashlight, plunging them into darkness, but the next second, he has the door open, and the streetlights illuminate them both. They're far closer than Castiel expected, with barely a few inches between them. The man's eyes are green. "Helps me understand him."

There's a beat, where Castiel just stands there staring at the detective, and the detective stares back.

The detective is the first to break the silence. "You should go, Mr. Novak."

Castiel blinks. "Call me Castiel."

The detective grins, lips stretching over straight teeth. "Alright, Castiel. Time for you to go."

Castiel doesn't move. "I still don't know your name. _Detective_." He puts emphasis on the last word, tilting his head in a silent question.

Something like amusement glimmers inside the other man's eyes. "Dean Winchester."

Castiel nods satisfied, stepping outside. With a yellow tape between them, he says, "I'll see you around, Dean." 

"Don't come anywhere near my crime scenes again," Dean warns leaning against the door frame.

Castiel has a much better plan than sneaking around crime scenes.

Castiel squints at his screen. He rereads the last sentence. Hits backspace furiously until the whole thing is deleted. Some days writing is harder than usual. Being at the newspaper offices instead of his house usually helps, but today is one of _those_ days.

His cell phone ringing draws him out of his thoughts, the unknown number on the screen doing more to catch his attention than the actual sound. It’s not a number he’s seen before, but he has a hunch. He checks his watch before answering. The time seems about right.

He clears his throat and swipes to accept the call. “Hello.”

“Mr. Novak! I should have guessed it,” comes the immediate answer from the other end of the line.

Castiel leans back in his chair, satisfied at the amusement he can detect in the other man’s voice. A bit flattered at being recognized instantly, too, he won’t lie. “I thought we were on a first-name basis, Dean.”

Dean laughs, the sound clear and full. “Apparently, we’re on a ‘send a box of donuts to your desk for breakfast’ basis, as well,” he jokes, a muffled sound that Castiel can easily picture as Dean fighting to open the box with one hand following his words. “Seriously, man, leave a name with that box, not just your phone number. People thought they were from a secret admirer or something.”

“What makes you think I’m not a secret admirer?” Castiel asks, not bothering to suppress the smile spreading on his face. He’s teetering dangerously on the edge of flirting, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, and curiously, Castiel finds he doesn’t mind, either.

“A secret admirer? Really? What are you buttering me up for, Cas?” Dean asks, not missing a beat.

So, Dean saw right through his little ploy. Castiel must admit he’d be disappointed if he hadn’t. It makes things more interesting. He decides to let the nickname slide. “I’m not buttering you up for anything. You owe me coffee now.”

“Is that how it goes?” Dean says, and Castiel imagines that’s what a smirk sounds like over the phone. “And does that coffee come with a bunch of questions I have to answer?”

“You scratch my back, and I scratch yours.”

“I do have an itch that needs scratching, but how will you help me with that?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He should have seen that answer coming. “Let’s go for a coffee, and I’m sure you’ll see that we can both benefit from this collaboration.”

Dean laughs again. “Is that what young people call it these days? Collaboration?”

Castiel weighs his options. He’s having fun, but if he lets this go on for too long he’ll lose Dean’s attention and any chance he has of getting on the detective’s good side. He takes a risk. “Do you, or do you not, want to solve your case?”

A beat. Then: “Do you have something for me?”

Bingo. Castiel cast his lure and got a bite. “Coffee,” he reminds Dean, tapping the butt of his pen on the desk. “And we’ll talk.”

Dean exhales on the other end of the line. He’s hesitating, enough that Castiel worries he’s revealed too much too soon. Dean could find an excuse and ask him to come in for questioning—finding Castiel at the crime scene two days ago certainly doesn’t help his case—and then all of Castiel’s efforts would go to waste.

But it’s his lucky day.

“Let me check my schedule,” Dean says. “Can I text you on this number?”

“Of course,” Castiel agrees, mentally pumping his fist in victory. “Just let me know what day and time works for you.”

“Will do,” Dean hums. “Talk to you later, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

It's hard to concentrate on his work with the way his fingertips tingle with excitement. He tells himself it's because he can get a very good deal out of this meeting, enough times that he almost believes it, too. The detective's playful grin has nothing to do with it.

And yet Castiel keeps jumping out of his seat every time his screen lights up with a new message notification for the rest of the day. None of them are from the green-eyed detective though. Hour after hour, Castiel waits, until it's time to go home. 

Driving back home and showering barely registers in his mind. Disappointment leaves a bitter taste on his tongue when he tries to eat dinner, so half of it he throws away. He gathers his plates in the sink, ready to wash them and relax with a good book curled in his sofa when a ringing noise gets his attention.

Could it…?

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, wet hands be damned. His heart jumps a little at the sight of Dean’s name.

_Lunch, tomorrow?_


	3. Chapter 3

_October 2019_ _  
_ _Two Days Missing_

Dean is an idiot. A stupid, fucking idiot. Of course Cas threw him out, why wouldn't he? In his shoes, Dean would have probably done much worse. 

He runs down the stairs of Cas' apartment building—refusing to think that this used to be his home, too, once upon a time—and storms outside. Baby is waiting for him on the side of the road, her metal shining with the first warm rays of the sun. That's his home now. Always has been and always will be.

He walks to the driver's side and pauses. Inhales. 

Back when he and Cas were still together, Dean would come back from work every night, and the first thing he did after parking his car was to check the window up on the third floor. If Cas was home the lights would be on. Sometimes Cas would sit by the window, reading a book and waiting to see the Impala, greeting Dean before he made his way upstairs.

Now, when Dean lifts his eyes to the same window, he finds Cas again, looking down at him, solemn-faced. There's no warm greeting or goodbye this time. Just Castiel darting out of view, and curtains being drawn closed. And Dean's heartbeat, louder than a marching band inside his ears.

Why did Dean ever expect anything else?

A knot quickly forming in the back of his throat, he gets in the car and drives away. 

He's almost out of Kansas City before he lets himself feel it. The burning rage that chokes him, the disappointment that sits heavy inside his chest. He hits the wheel with his fist again and again.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The road stretches out in front of him, running through endless green fields. He has music blasting through the speakers, and usually, that along with the steady hum of Baby’s engine would be enough to calm him, but today it aggravates him. Reminds him of the miles between him and his brother that he still has ahead of him. And all that time wasted to stop by Cas’ place, just to get the door shut in his face—figuratively, because it was Dean that left of his own accord. Again. Like the coward he is.

No, no. Dean won't think about that now. His priority is Sammy. Always Sammy. 

If only he hadn't been stupid enough to think that Cas may have a small piece of him left that still cared about Dean enough to help, he'd have left hours ago. Shit, if anything happens to Sam because he wasn’t there on time, Dean will… He doesn’t know what he’ll do, but it’ll be ugly, and this time not even Bobby will be able to put all the broken pieces back together.

Dean drives with a single purpose in his mind. Find Sammy, get him home, keep an eye on him for the rest of his life. Now if he only manages to do task number one, the other two should be a piece of cake. 

There's a small, treacherous part in the back of his mind that stirs. It reminds him in a stern voice that sounds too close to John Winchester for Dean's comfort, that if he were a good brother, Sam wouldn't be missing in the first place. If he hadn't allowed Sam to leave, if he'd been there for him more after Jessica's car accident, if he hadn't been a fucking mess that Sam needed to babysit all the fucking time.

If, if, if.

Dean takes a deep breath. Wallowing in self-hatred is not going to help him. Besides, letting his mind go down that path will inevitably lead to thinking about Cas again, and he's already promised himself he's not going there.

His eyes sting with tears, despite all his promises. Cas wouldn't even look at him. Those first few moments, when Cas had stopped in front of his car only to keep running towards his door, running away from Dean, are like a knife through the ribs. He’d hoped… He’d hoped time would have softened the pain. That maybe Cas would be at least ready to listen to him. Instead, Cas didn’t even want to see him. No one to blame but Dean for that.

His fingers tighten on the wheel. Turning the radio on louder doesn’t exactly help, but Dean pretends it does. He keeps driving. 

There’s not much to distract him, no matter how desperately he needs it. The scenery remains unchanging for hours—green field after green field, and small town after small town. Even the tape finishes, and he has to restart it and hear the same songs all over again.

He’s an hour away from his destination when his phone rings. Eyes still on the road, he fumbles on the seat next to him until he finds it. It’s probably Bobby, checking in on him. He curses at himself for forgetting to call him. Bobby worries about Sam, too, and unlike Dean, he can’t take matters into his own hands and drive all the way to Nebraska to see what’s going on.

But it’s not Bobby’s number that flashes on his screen. Dean almost drives the car into a ditch from the shock, straightening the wheel back on its course at the very last second. His throat feels dry, to the point he’s not sure a sound will come out even if he tries to yell. He presses the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he croaks.

“Dean, where are you?” 

It’s like he’s been punched to the throat. It’s the same voice, the same question as so many phone calls in the past, but not even a hint of the warmth Dean was so used to hearing back then. Suddenly, two years feel longer than a lifetime.

“Cas?” he asks, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Is that you?”

There’s a pause before Cas says, “So I guess you deleted my number, if you have to ask that.” Maybe it’s Dean’s imagination, but he thinks he hears a hint of disappointment behind that question.

“No, never.” The answer escapes Dean’s mouth before he even knows it’s there. It’s the truth, though. Dean never managed to delete Cas’ number, despite trying several times. It didn’t matter whether he deleted it or not, because he’d be able to recite it by heart even on his deathbed. It’s carved into his mind in the same way everything about Cas is carved inside him. With too many lost opportunities and years of self-inflicted scars.

“So, where are you?” Cas asks, the sound of drawers opening and closing a steady background noise. He sounds hurried. 

“Um, Nebraska?” Dean says, cringing on the inside. Here’s Cas _calling_ him after so long, and Dean’s mind is too busy going into emergency mode, with sirens blasting behind his temples, to form a coherent sentence. 

"Nebraska? Is that where Sam is?" 

"Yeah. A small town a couple of hours out of Omaha. He came out here about a week ago. Said he needed to clear his mind after Jess—well, after, and he'd found a case or something."

"A case? As in a lawsuit?" It's so easy to pair the tone of his question with the type of frown that draws Castiel's brows close together, makes his forehead crease. 

Dean should really keep his focus. "No, nothing like that. His boss gave him some time off to grieve, but you know Sammy, he’s not like that. Whenever I had my back turned he was giving free advice on some forum or something. He told me one day that a lady reached out to him, and the next thing I know he's packing his suitcase for Humphrey." 

"And you said he hasn't been in touch with you since Saturday night?"

"Yeah," Dean says, the last conversation he had with his brother as clear in his mind as if it had happened an hour ago. "We were on the phone, but he was about to get in the car, so he told me he'd call me again from the motel. He never did, but I figured maybe he forgot about it. When he didn't answer any of my texts or calls all Sunday I got worried."

“Right, okay,” Castiel hums on the other end of the line, and all the shuffling and shoving sounds come to an end. “I’ll be there in four hours, then.”

For the second time in five minutes, Dean almost drives off the road. Heart beating ten times faster than normal—an effect only Cas manages to have on him, to this day—Dean tries to wrap his mind around that sentence. “You’ll be… in Nebraska.”

“Yes, Dean, I’ll be in Nebraska, please try and keep up,” Cas says, the eye-roll that goes with that sentence almost audible. “And text me the motel you’ll be staying at. It’ll be easier to find you that way.”

“I—okay?”

“Okay, talk to you later, then,” Castiel says, and the line goes dead.

Humphrey is unremarkable as far as country towns go, with many narrow roads, old farm houses and tidy lawns. It’s a good thing that most people are already at work at this time of the day, because the Impala stands out like a sore thumb as she cruises through. 

His destination is Sam’s motel, on the outskirts of the town. Every street light pole he passes has missing person posters stabbed all over it—the same girl’s round face smiling back at him from everywhere. A neon sign appears through the trees after a while, pointing him in the right direction, and a few minutes later, Dean parks outside the dingy building. Sam’s Charger is nowhere in sight. 

Checking his watch first—he still has another three hours before Cas arrives—he heads to the front desk. The wallpaper is old but clean, and the biting, synthetic scent of lemon fills his nose as soon as he walks in; a mop and bucket standing against a wall must be the culprit. It's not like the motels Dean's used to hanging around, meaning it doesn't look like it can turn into a crime scene at the drop of a hat. 

The man looks up from his newspaper when Dean walks in, wire glasses hanging on for dear life to the tip of his nose. “Can I help you?” he grunts, without making any effort to move his newspaper aside. The name tag pinned to his shirt identifies him as Bill.

Dean puts on his most charming smile. "Yeah, I'm here looking for my brother. His name is Sam Winchester."

An eyebrow rises to Bill's graying hairline as he takes Dean in. "So, call him," he says, jerking the newspaper so it stands straight again, and goes back to reading.

"Actually, the problem is that he hasn't been answering his phone. So, if you could point me in the direction of his room, that'd be great," Dean says, forcing all the worry and annoyance out of his voice. Somehow, he doubts bribing will work in this situation, which only leaves him with the choice of staying on Bill's good side.

"If he ain't answering then maybe he doesn't wanna talk to you," Bill says, eyes never moving away from the article he's reading.

Dean leans forward, palms flat on the desk. He's looming over the older man now, but Bill doesn't look in the least bit bothered. "Look, _Bill_." Dean makes a show of checking the name tag. "Something terrible might have happened to my brother, so be nice and show me his room."

Bill purses his lips in thought. Then he shakes his head. "No can do. We don't give keys to our clients' rooms unless we have directions to do so."

Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Dean forces himself to widen his smile. He has too much on his mind right now and doesn’t need Bill’s attitude on top of everything else. "What I'm trying to tell you is that my brother is missing. So how would he give you directions to let me into the room, huh? When was the last time you even saw him?"

Sighing, Bill folds his newspaper and turns his chair to face Dean with hands folded in front of him. "Are you police?"

"No."

 _Not anymore_ , he doesn't say.

"Then I can't help you," Bill says. "Now either get a room of your own while you wait for your brother to show up or get out of here."

Grinding his teeth, Dean accepts defeat. He books a room with two queens, paying for a couple of days in advance, and goes back to his car to get his duffel bag. 

The motel has two floors, with a metal staircase on its side that leads to the upper floor straight from the parking lot. There are about a dozen identical doors on each floor and no hint as to which one belongs to Sam. 

He drops his bag off in his own room, trying not to think about the two beds in there. He’s not sure that Cas will want to share a room with him, or even stay at the same motel, but he wants to be prepared, anyway. It’s weird, waiting for Cas after two years. His stomach is a knotted bundle of nerves, and though he knows Cas is not arriving any time soon, he keeps glancing out the window for any sign of a car approaching. Nothing does.

It’s not healthy, this obsession he has with Cas, not when it was Dean that ended things, and in the worst possible way. But not thinking about him means going down a spiral of the worst things that could have happened to Sam, and he really can’t handle that. Cursing at himself for letting Cas go and hurting him, now that’s something he’s used to. It’s become second nature to him by now.

With nothing else to do, and his stomach reminding him every few minutes he hasn’t eaten since last night, Dean decides to kill some time and take a look around the town while finding somewhere to have a late breakfast. Maybe he’ll spot Sam’s car somewhere along the way, and this whole thing will turn out to be a huge misunderstanding. He sighs before getting into his car. Like life has ever been that kind to him.

His drive around town is short and yields no results. No sign of Sam and, more importantly, nothing else for him to do but sit on his ass and wait. 

There's a brightly lit coffee shop on the main road with large windows and gold loopy letters that say _Donna's Delights._ It looks as good as any other place to Dean. When he steps inside, he's enveloped with the smell of freshly ground coffee and sugar. A colorful assortment of pastries greets him from the display case before a blonde pops up from behind it to do the same. 

"Hello, hello," she says, a tray with donuts in her hands. "How may I help ya?" 

Dean orders a black coffee and a piece of cherry pie. He chooses the table next to the window, so he can keep an eye on the road, and digs in. 

By all accounts, the pie is delicious, but everything feels like ash on his tongue and the coffee is too bitter. Where he usually would have gulped the pie down in a matter of minutes, he now pushes it around his plate for a good hour before he's ready to admit to himself that, hungry or not, he won't be able to eat another bite.

“Oh my, was the pie that bad?” 

The blonde owner—Dean assumes she’s the owner since she’s been doing everything from the moment he arrived, being serving, baking or cleaning—bites on her lower lip, leaning over the counter to eye Dean’s still full plate.

Forcing himself to smile, Dean puts his fork down. There’s no reason to keep destroying a perfectly good piece of pie just because he’s not in the mood for it. “Delicious, actually,” he tells her. “I’m just not hungry.”

“You do look kind of gloomy,” she agrees, stepping out from behind the counter and walking towards Dean’s table. A strand of hair comes loose from her ponytail before she tucks it behind her ear. “You’re not from around here, are ya? Haven’t seen you before.”

“No, just visiting for a few days,” Dean confirms. “I'm looking for my brother, Sam Winchester. Lawyer, tall, overdue for a haircut,” he adds when the name clearly means nothing to her. His voice catches at the hair joke Sam would normally be scoffing at, but he covers it by clearing his throat, and the woman looks none the wiser.

Something like recognition sparks in her eyes. She drops to the seat across from him, using her apron to clean the flour off her hands. “My, you don’t mean that handsome fella that came here to help find Eve’s girl, do ya?”

Back straightening a bit, Dean leans towards her, all his attention now on her. “That’s the one. So, you do know him?”

“Such a polite young man,” she says, shaking her head. “Very gloomy, too, though, such a shame.”

Stamping on the hope blossoming inside him, Dean tilts his head to the side. “Have you seen him lately? Like yesterday or today?”

She frowns, eyes gazing out of the window for a moment as she tries to remember. “No, I don’t think I have. I met him a couple of times when he came over here with our sheriff last week.”

Dean's stomach drops. Still no sign from Sam then. God, how much he wishes Cas was right and his brother was just running away from him. He has learned to live knowing Cas is not speaking to him but at least he's happy away from him, and he knows he can do the same for Sam, too. But the longer time passes without any news, the longer Dean fears that's not the case at all.

“The sheriff?” he asks, and the tone of his voice urges the blonde to go on talking. 

“Yep, Jody Mills. She’s been searching for that poor girl for close to a month, now. Didn’t find much, not even after your brother showed up. Her friends insist she ran away.” She shrugs with a tight smile, like it’s common for people around here to run away every now and then.

Dean’s not particularly interested in the missing girl, but Jody Mills is a good place to start his investigation. She might have seen his brother since Dean last spoke to him. Depending on how well Sam was acquainted with her, the sheriff might even help him get access to Sam’s room. It’s not a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all.

“Yeah, I heard about that girl. A terrible case. I hope they find her soon,” he says, then adds, “I’m Dean, by the way.”

She reaches over the table to shake his hand. “Oh, I’m Donna. Nice to meet ya.”

“Donna? As in…?” Dean points to the gold letters on the window right next to him.

“That’s me,” she chuckles. "Donna and her delights."

“And, uh, Jody Mills? Is she a friend of yours?”

“Best friend,” Donna grins.

 _Bingo_ , Dean thinks. “Do you know where I can find Sheriff Mills? I’ve been trying to get in contact with my brother without much luck, and maybe she can help me.”

“Oh, sure,” Donna says, standing up. “She should still be at the office, just go over there and ask for her. As a matter of fact, let me grab a box of goodies for her. Tell her Donna sent you.” She putters around behind the counter, producing a large box of cinnamon buns in a matter of seconds, before turning her bright smile back to Dean. “And can I get you anything for the road?” She gratefully accepts the plate and cup Dean brings back from his table, putting them aside to clean later.

“I’m fine,” Dean shakes his head. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh, but please, I feel bad you didn’t eat the pie. Anything you want,” she says, gesturing at the overflowing displays.

Dean opens his mouth to politely decline again, but his phone vibrating in his pocket stops him.

_Almost there. Meet you at the motel in 10?_

Dean’s whole body sags with relief. Despite talking to Cas just a few hours ago, he hadn’t believed the other man really was coming until now. But Cas will be here soon. Maybe he still hates Dean, but he cares enough about Sam to help find him. Dean can’t ask for more than that. He’s already asking too much, he knows that. The haunted look on Cas’ face when he saw Dean under his apartment after two years twists something ugly deep in his gut. He did that. He hurt Cas. And he still went back like a dog with its tail between its legs begging for attention.

He eyes the rows of pastries in front of him. Chances are Cas drove here without making any stops. He's probably hungry. Maybe Dean can't ever make up for his mistakes, can't even hope Cas will let him apologize, but he can show he still cares.

It's the least he can do.

"Can I get a couple of blueberry muffins?" he asks Donna, typing a quick reply. "And a flat white to go."

"Of course," Donna nods eagerly. "Two muffins and a flat white coming right up."

She prepares the coffee with quick and practiced movements, the earthy smell of it washing over Dean. Soon, she has a paper bag with the muffins on top of the cinnamon bun box, and both of them along with the coffee into a larger bag she holds out for Dean to take. When Dean reaches for his wallet she shoos him away.

"Don't you dare, now," she says, shaking a warning finger at his direction. "It's the least I could do after my pie failed you. You just make sure to take those buns to Jody, okay?"

"No worries. You can count on me," Dean says, lifting two fingers in a mock salute. He likes Donna, he decides. She's like a bright sunray that forces her way through his cloudy life. He just wishes that was enough to fix the foul mood he's been in for the last two years and a half. 

The Impala roars back to life when he pushes the key in the ignition. There's not enough time to find the Sheriff, so he heads back to the motel instead. Cas will probably want to be there for that talk anyway. The drive back is too short, and he ends up pacing the room for a few minutes before he hears another car approaching. He’s out of the door before the car is parked.

The driver’s door opens, and Castiel steps out, eyes squinting against the sunlight as he meets Dean's gaze, steady and unwavering.

Dean inhales, his heart doing a happy dance for the second time that day. He realizes that this is the first real breath he’s taken in two years.


	4. Chapter 4

_November 2015_

The place Castiel has chosen to meet is not what Dean would normally choose. It has real tables to sit in instead of booths, for one thing, and there’s not a burger in sight on the menu, for another. The warm lights above his head make this restaurant feel homey and intimate, and the antique cooking utensils used as decoration only enhance the rustic vibe of the place. Exposed brick walls and open shelving create small corners everywhere, with ropes braided together and used as heavy curtains that separate each table from the next, providing some semblance of privacy and… well, Dean can’t think of a better word than intimacy.

Maybe he’s been watching too many chick flicks lately, but this looks more like a place for a date to him than for a professional meeting. And there’s no way this is a date. Dean looked up the name Castiel Novak the same night he met him, only to find article after article about homicides and unsolved missing-persons cases. A few questions around his department confirmed his suspicions. The weird, dorky journalist has a habit of sneaking around crime scenes and bribing police officers for inside information. 

And, of course, that box with donuts had appeared on his desk a day later. Dean has used his own ability to charm and sweet talk others into doing him favors plenty of times, from tricking suspects into putting their guard down during questioning to getting phone numbers from pretty waitresses, and he knows when someone is trying to pull the same trick on him. But Castiel said he has information, and Dean has hit a dead end with this investigation already. If buying a journalist lunch will get him the piece of the puzzle he's missing, then so be it.

The fact that Castiel is easy on the eyes is just a bonus.

Speaking of the devil, Dean looks up from the leather-bound menu the server brought just a few minutes ago, to see a shock of dark hair approaching him.

“Hello,” Castiel says, voice as deep as ever, reaching over the table to shake Dean’s hand with a close-lipped smile. “Thank you for meeting me here.”

Dean accepts the handshake, before gesturing at the seat across from him. “I’ll admit you’ve piqued my interest with your promises over that phone call.”

“Which one of the promises?” Castiel raises an eyebrow at him, shedding his trench coat at the same time to drape it over the back of his chair, and… yeah. Not so dorky, after all. The coat might have looked like it swallowed the dark-haired man up, but the suit he wears underneath does little to hide how fit he really is. Castiel not-so-subtly bringing up their flirting—which was definitely not flirting—does little to keep Dean’s mind out of the gutter.

 _Not a date!_ his brain screams at him, even as he struggles to regain his composure. 

“About my case,” Dean says, fighting against every instinct in his body that urges his eyes to drop to where Castiel has removed his suit jacket, too, and is now rolling his sleeves to his elbows.

He doesn't lose the battle so much as he surrenders. 

Castiel has nice, thick forearms. And probably strong hands.

_Not a date._

He snaps his eyes up to find Castiel already looking back. Gone is any trace of the playfulness he'd used while they were on the phone, and the same can be said for the coyness he'd displayed the night they'd met. He got his goal by getting Dean to meet him here, and now it's time to discuss business. That sobers Dean up a bit.

“I realize you have no suspects,” Castiel says, not beating around the bush.

“That's not something I can confirm,” Dean answers, acutely aware of how anything he says can end up in an article.

Castiel winces. “Everything we say here will remain between us. Scout’s honor.” He follows his promise with the accompanying sign, his face so serious that Dean can't help but crack a smile.

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“A long time ago,” Castiel admits, hands coming to rest on the table in front of him, fingers laced together. “But that's not the point. The point is that you have a potential cold case on your hands.”

Dean is not happy to admit Castiel is right, but he can't exactly refute his claims, either. He settles for a grunt that can be interpreted both ways. 

“You are a very good detective, Dean, I don't doubt that,” Cas continues. “I took the liberty of looking into your career before coming here; I hope you don't mind. It's truly impressive and speaks of a man with a lot of compassion and an unwavering moral compass. I followed the Wilson case closely while it was being investigated but didn't realize you were involved until recently. It's admirable work you did for that boy’s family.”

The Wilson case is not the hardest case Dean has worked on, but it's definitely one that was heavily covered by the media. It wasn't a homicide, per se. The young student had killed himself, jumping off his building rooftop. They'd even found a suicide note left behind. It really should have been an open-and-close case, and it was only on Dean's insistence that they'd looked further into it.

And he's glad he did because his investigation brought light to how harsh bullying and hazing on campus was, and how deeply a person can be affected. A dozen frat boys were prosecuted by the DA, but Dean knows that more were responsible. Those that laughed, those who knew and never spoke up. In his eyes, only half of the culprits were brought to justice.

“I was only doing my job,” Dean says, never a man to accept praise easily. 

“Not everyone would have done the same, Dean, believe me,” Castiel says, eyes unwavering as he stares straight at him.

Feeling the beginnings of a flush creeping up his neck, Dean clears his throat. At least the server appearing to take their orders saves him from having to answer that. He asks for the pork cutlet, while Castiel orders grilled salmon and a salad. 

“So, about the case,” Dean starts, but the way Castiel winces stops him.

“Don’t you prefer to talk business after we’ve eaten?”

Dean narrows his eyes at Castiel, but it’s hard to suppress the smile tugging at his lips. “And what are we going to talk about while we eat?”

Blue eyes focus all their intensity on him, and _God,_ Dean is weak already.

“I’d like to get to know you better.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, thinking of Castiel's little investigation on him. The fact that Dean did a basic background check on Cas is irrelevant. “From where I’m standing it looks like you know plenty already.”

“Only what’s in articles and online,” Castiel admits, giving him a sheepish smile. Maybe it's fake and purposefully plays up Castiel's expressive eyes, but Dean has to admit it's damn adorable. “But those are not the most interesting parts,” Castiel adds, the end of his sentence left hanging, like he has more to say.

Dean decides to take the bait. He answers with a question to prove two can play this game. “And what _are_ the interesting parts?”

“You tell me. You’re a fascinating man, Detective.” And with that, he leans forward, all the intensity of his stare focused on Dean and Dean alone.

Dean actually shivers. A hint of thrill slips down his spine. “And here I was thinking that all the flirting was to get into my files,” he teases, grateful that the waiter arriving with their drinks gives him an excuse to break their eye contact first. He's not uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, but as he keeps reminding himself: this. is. not. a. date.

Cas’ eyes haven't moved at all when he looks back, so Dean brings his glass to his lips to take a sip. Another excuse to not meet his eye or risk blushing like some virgin schoolgirl.

“As opposed to getting into your pants?” Castiel enquirers.

Dean almost chokes. He literally feels the beer burning up his nose before he manages to turn his sputtering to a less embarrassing coughing fit. He'd thought of it, too, of course, but he hadn't expected Cas to outright say it.

Like the little shit he's proving himself to be, Castiel chuckles. “Relax, Dean. That's a discussion for another day.”

“You… you…” Dean's mind comes up blank. The only thing that comes out of his mouth is a frustrated groan that makes Castiel laugh again.

“I'm sorry. That was a bit direct, even for me. But I really do find myself intrigued.” Castiel's gaze doesn't move away even when the waiter brings their food. He finds his fork and knife without even glancing towards them. “Tell me about you, Dean. Whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

Eating is a nice buffer and getting some meat in him helps him relax again—his mind definitely does not consider getting Castiel's meat in him. He starts hesitantly, sharing a few anecdotes from work, but Castiel is easy to talk to. He laughs at all the right moments and adds interesting stories of his own in the conversation until Dean feels confident enough to just let go and enjoy this.

There's a natural chemistry between them, not the least of which is attributed to the constant teasing comments both make that are slightly too close to flirting for Dean to ignore. Maybe this really is Castiel buttering him up for inside information, but there's a spark between them that can't be denied.

Once both have finished eating, Castiel orders coffee, raising an eyebrow in Dean's direction, who just nods along. With two steaming espressos in front of them, Castiel finally broaches the most important subject.

“I did a little research on our victim and I found an interesting detail.”

Dean doesn't miss the _our_. He is sure it was used on purpose. To make Dean feel like they are already working together.

Castiel continues, unaware of Dean's train of thought. “She quit her previous job about six months ago, even though she was being considered for promotion. Now that's not exactly weird, except I talked with her husband—”

“God, please don't tell me you've been bothering my witnesses.”

“—and he says she was quite happy there. And she didn't have another job lined up, either.”

“That's… that _is_ weird,” Dean grumbles. The witness harassing thing maybe can be ignored for now.

Castiel nods, twisting to grab his phone from the pocket of his trench coat. Dean only gets a brief view of the lock screen, but it looks like it's a picture of a bee. Then Castiel swipes to the right, taps around and brings up a document. 

“I tracked down some of her old colleagues, and they said there was this guy that kept hitting on her. Sending flowers, notes, showing up at her office without having any business there.”

He turns the phone towards Dean. It's Castiel's personal notes from interviewing several people. Some words are in bold. _No report of sexual harassment. Scared to tell husband._

“They said she kept laughing it off, but that's the only reason I could think of that she'd quit out of the blue.”

Dean takes the phone out of Castiel’s hand. He scans everything written there, trying to remember if any of the victim’s friends and family had mentioned something like that. Nothing comes to mind, but if she really was scared to tell her husband maybe she was scared of telling others, too.

“Do you think he was stalking her?” Dean asks, meeting Castiel's eyes.

“I think it's worth checking out.” 

Dean smirks. “This might be a lead, but I'm not sure it's good enough to give you privileges.”

Castiel blinks. “Privileges,” he repeats like he doesn't understand.

“Dude, I can't let you anywhere near my witnesses or give you photos of the crime scene.”

“Oh, that's alright.” Cas shrugs.

It's Dean's turn to not understand. “Huh?”

“I know it doesn’t look like it, but my priority is the same as yours—to catch the killer. I’ll be happy if we get the bastard behind bars. The article is a secondary concern. Even without your help, I can pull something decent out of my ass.”

Dean downs his espresso like a shot. The bitterness zips through him like a shock of adrenaline and keeps his brain away from any mental images of Castiel’s ass. “So, you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart?” he asks, trying to keep his face from scrunching up from the strong taste.

“Yes, I am,” Castiel says without missing a beat. Or looking away. Or leaning back in his chair. 

Dean starts to suspect that if it wasn’t for the table between them, Castiel would be all up in his personal space by now. Dean thinks that he wouldn’t exactly mind finding himself in that situation. 

He shakes his head. “And why should I believe you?”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, eyes gazing up briefly like he’s thinking that through. He pulls away in a fluid motion, lifting his hands up in surrender. “You don’t trust me; that’s fair. Here’s the deal. I give you that information, and I don’t contact you again. You look into this or you don’t. When— _If_ the case is solved, I write an article based on whatever official statement you release to the media.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at that. There’s always a catch when dealing with journalists. “And after that, I see an article with everything we’ve talked about up until now?”

“You haven’t told me anything,” Castiel says. “But even if you had, the answer is no. Not only because I gave you my word that everything you said would stay between us, but also because you’re a nice guy, Dean. And I think I want to keep you for myself. My readers can find the drama they love somewhere else, this time.”

Dean feels his cheeks burning. 

God, how does Castiel do that? 

He hasn’t blushed since he was a teenager, and just an hour in this man’s presence has turned him into a fumbling, blubbering mess. Things were so much easier when they met at the crime scene and Castiel was just a shy journalist, or even when Dean was convinced Castiel wanted to take advantage of him. It seems Castiel is so much more than either of those things, and it has left him flustered. For the first time in his life when dealing with someone he’s interested in, Dean doesn’t know where he’s standing.

Considering his humor is his strongest, if most annoying, trait, he relies on it yet again. “Scout’s honor?”

Castiel chuckles, eyes crinkling. “Scout’s honor,” he repeats, the gummy smile never leaving his face.

Somehow, this feels like Dean just signed a contract.

It’s been two days, and true to his word, Castiel hasn’t reached out after saying goodbye outside that restaurant.

Dean is going crazy. He’s ready to climb the walls of his office at the station. He’s getting some serious mixed signals here. Or maybe the signals are very straightforward and it’s just him that can’t read them.

The business side of things was easy to deal with. Checking on the lead Castiel gave him took barely a day when he knew what to look for, so Dean not only has enough people willing to go on record to talk about the victim being harassed at her job, but he’s also pretty sure she was being stalked, too. Which moves Mr. Sexual Harassment to the number one spot of suspects.

The only thing he has to do now is question the guy, book him, search him and if he’s right… drumroll, _ding-ding-ding_ , they have a winner. Fairly straightforward.

The other half is not as easy. Which is the half that has Castiel Novak written all over it. 

Castiel did say he didn’t want any special treatment. But was he telling the truth? Does that extend to future cases, as well, or will he show up at Dean’s doorstep in a month demanding access to restricted evidence? And is he actually, really, seriously, not _ha-ha-I-got-what-I-wanted-so-bye_ serious about Dean? So many things that he can’t predict. He’s too close to this, he knows it.

The thing is, he really likes Castiel. He likes the weird guy that wears that ugly trench coat and has a bee as his lock screen, and he likes his confidence when he made a move on Dean. He had so much fun on their not-date, despite freaking out every two minutes. And the fact that maybe the dude pretty much solved the case on his own, without access to everything Dean has… That’s pretty hot. Smarts paired with dark hair have always been Dean’s undoing. He has a weakness, sue him!

Dean groans, pacing his office one more time. This is not helping him. He has to focus back on the case, and the fact is, he can’t do it unless he finds someone objective to look at all the evidence and draw a conclusion. He stops dead in his tracks. 

Of course, why didn’t he think of it from the start?

The only person that could possibly help him with this dilemma is his boss.

Half an hour of talking with Rufus later, and another hour of talking himself into and out of it, Dean hits send before he can change his mind.

_Are you at home?_

The answer comes quickly enough that he doesn’t have the time to second guess himself or freak out.

_Work. Hello, Dean :)_

Castiel uses emoijs? Somehow that makes Dean go a little weak at the knees.

_Busy?_

_No, why?_

_Send me the address and I’ll come pick you up right away_

“I thought I told you I don’t want any information. Or to be involved in the case.” Castiel frowns at Dean. He’s sitting in the passenger side of the police car Dean uses while on duty, adorably stupid trench coat on.

“And I told you that it wasn’t my decision,” Dean says for the hundredth time since he picked him up from the newspaper and explained the situation to him.

“It sounds to me like you went to your boss and asked for permission to take me with you to question a suspect,” Castiel points out, squinting at the buildings they’re cruising by.

“Which is where you are wrong. Because this wasn’t my idea, it was Rufus’. I just went to him and was completely honest in telling him you were my source in tracking down those old co-workers.” He looks over to find Castiel giving him a doubtful gaze, so he adds, “I swear to God. He said that since you were the only one to figure this out, then you’d better be there for the first questioning of the guy, too.” 

Castiel raises an eyebrow in his direction. “Did he now?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Dean tells him, feeling the beginning of a grin tugging at his lips. “Right after he called me a useless idiot and cursed old age for forcing him to stay in an office instead of being out chasing criminals. So just our usual Thursday.”

They arrive at the suspect's house, a two-story building with well-trimmed bushes and a white picket fence. It’s a nice neighborhood, similar to the one the victim was living in, and the type of place the residents will say they’re shocked that their neighbor could do something like that.

Nothing shocks Dean anymore, though.

“We’re here,” he says, killing the engine and turning to look at Castiel expectantly.

“Dean, I’m not coming with you,” Castiel says, shaking his head.

“Why not? It was Rufus’ idea, so what’s the harm?”

Fidgeting, Castiel looks at the house, then back to Dean. “Because if I come inside, then you’ll always think that I did all this for my article.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Dean asks, “And why does that bother you so bad?”

Castiel sighs. “Maybe I care about what you think of me.”

There’s a beat, during which Dean is on the fence about what to do. He understands where Castiel is coming from, he really does, but they’re already here. On one hand, it’s against protocol to knock on their suspect’s door without backup. On the other hand, Castiel is not an officer and so he’s not really backup, anyway.

“Fine,” he says at last. “You can wait here.”

Walking towards the front door, Dean checks over his shoulder exactly once to find Castiel giving him a small wave from inside the car. Dude really is serious about not meddling with Dean’s case. Who knew?

He presses the doorbell, and soon a short man with brown hair answers the door.

“Thomas Ramsey?” Dean flashes his badge, giving the man a reassuring smile. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

Thomas takes a step back, surprised, but he quickly recovers. The way he glances behind him, like he has something he wants to hide, doesn’t escape Dean, but then he’s stepping away and gesturing him inside. 

“Sure. Please, make yourself comfortable. Can I offer you something? Coffee? Tea? Maybe some water?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Dean says, inspecting the interior of the house. It’s clean, the walls painted a light shade of blue, with generic pictures hanging from the walls. He’s shown to the living room, which looks like it’s straight out of some IKEA catalogue. No personal touch whatsoever, except for a couple of potted plants here and there.

Dean hovers by the couch, waiting for Thomas to come closer, but he stands by the door. “I'll get some tea for myself, and then we can talk. I assume this is about the break-in down the road?”

“Get your tea,” Dean says simply, not really answering his question.

Thomas’ eyes widen, and he nods, before hurrying towards a door further down the hall. 

Dean walks around the room, touches a weird statue that looks like a mutated pineapple, steps closer to a picture of deer hanging from the wall. Thomas Ramsey has weird taste in decorating, apparently.

Suddenly: “Hey, wait!”

It's a deep voice, one Dean can easily recognize. He has his hand on his gun and is bursting through the front door in a matter of seconds. What he sees makes him stumble down the stairs, but then he regains his balance and runs towards the two men struggling on the front lawn.

The passenger door of his car is thrown open, and Castiel has tackled Thomas Ramsey to the ground, a knee on his back and a hand pushing his head forcefully to the dirt.

“Hands up,” Dean barks, and Castiel's head snaps around. His shoulders relax, but his hold on Ramsey is unrelenting. 

“Stop moving,” Dean says, hastily making his way over. He crouches and quickly puts handcuffs on his suspect. This is not how this questioning was supposed to go, but here they are. “Thomas Ramsey, you're under arrest.”

A week, a search warrant, and a quick investigation of Ramsey’s house later reveals a plethora of photos of their victim. Some are taken from social media, but most are grainy and zoomed in, and it's clear the unfortunate woman had no idea she was being photographed.

Rufus asks for DNA tests, but it takes only half an hour of questioning with the photos on the table before Ramsey breaks down and signs a confession. 

It’s case closed.

Dean has spent the better part of the week at the station, after reluctantly asking Castiel to call a taxi and go home while he called backup and secured the suspect. He learned later from colleagues that Castiel got his inside scoop, courtesy of Rufus, as a thank you for apprehending the suspect who tried to run under Dean's nose. Dean even found the article. Very well written, he thought, focusing on the past and Ramsey's psychological profile rather than the actual police investigation. 

Keeping his eyes open by sheer force of stubbornness, Dean tunes out the last officers clocking out for the night and focuses on the reports he has to file. Paperwork is awful punishment, but quite light, considering a civilian had to help him catch the suspect.

There's a knock at the door before Castiel's head peeks inside. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. What are you doing here?” Dean asks, caught off guard.

Instead of an answer, Castiel lifts his hand, shows him a paper bag. “I heard you've been pulling all-nighters, and I thought I'd come to keep you company. I come bearing gifts.”

“Buttering me up again?” Dean tries for teasing, but it comes off as tired.

Castiel's face twists in a frustrated frown. “I just thought you might want some coffee.”

“Yeah, shit. I'm sorry, I'm an asshole. Here, take a seat.” Dean darts out of his chair, dragging another close to his desk for Castiel. He accepts the bag and digs inside to find not only two cups of coffee but a smaller paper bag that smells like vanilla and something fruity. “Thanks, Cas. And you got me food, too?”

“Blueberry muffins,” Castiel says, taking the seat. 

Dean can't stop a smile from spreading across his face. “You know, people would usually go for chocolate. It's the safest choice.”

Castiel looks up, face stuck between surprised and perplexed, like he can't figure out why chocolate is a safer choice. Something tugs at Dean's heartstrings at the sight.

“You don't like blueberry muffins?” Castiel asks, and for the first time since they met, he sounds genuinely worried.

Dean chuckles. “Relax. I like blueberry muffins. I like everything that's not green or fat-free.”

Castiel accepts one of the two cups of coffee, the one that has _caramel macchiato_ written on it; that’s too specific to be for Dean. “I love blueberry muffins,” he confesses. “They are my favorite.”

“Good to know.” Dean removes the plastic cover from his cup, inhaling the rich scent of warm coffee. Yeah, he definitely needs this with the amount of work he still has left. Even if the muffins are not exactly enough food for someone with his appetite, they’ll keep him going until he caves and orders a pizza.

“I won’t take too much of your time,” Castiel says.

Shrugging, Dean takes a sip from his coffee. “Hey, it’s fine. I can take a break.”

“Your boss offered me a position as a civilian consultant for the department.”

Dean looks up sharply, and with his sudden jerk, his coffee sloshes dangerously close to the edge. 

“But I’m not going to accept,” Castiel says quickly. “I’m happy with my work at the newspaper, and anyway I promised that I was going to prove to you that none of the things I did to get close to you had ulterior motives.” He looks away, flushing. “Or, at least most of them didn’t. If I’m being completely honest, I did think about it. I’ve done it before, but you… You’re different. And I knew that even before I looked into you. I think I knew from the moment we met, and you didn’t arrest me for trespassing.”

“I mean, I didn’t know back then that it wouldn’t be your first time spending the night behind bars for something like that,” Dean says, weakly. Then he winces, realizing that he just pretty much confessed to doing a background check on Castiel. His criminal record included.

Castiel smiles. “I don’t think most of your colleagues would have cared. That’s why you’re different. So, I guess my point is that I want the fact that I’m in no way interested in taking advantage of your position as a homicide detective to be clear before I tell you why I’m here.”

Dean blinks. A hundred different scenarios pass through his head, and a lot of them make his heart speed up. “Point taken,” is all he manages to say.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Would you like to go out with me? On a date.”

“Oh.”

Castiel is cute when he’s nervous. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him fidgeting like that before, which is why he waits a few moments before he says, “I’d love to.”


	5. Chapter 5

_October 2019_ _  
_ _Two Days Missing_

Castiel steps out of the car and all he can think about is fleeing. It's like there's a cage around his chest, mercilessly squeezing the breath out of him. There's Dean, eyes wide and hesitant like Castiel is a small bird and might fly away at the slightest sound, and there's every fiber in his body still mourning for what used to be.

He takes a breath, steeling himself.

He won't let Dean have this power over him, not anymore. He can do this. 

"I hope I'm not late." He takes his small suitcase out, locks the car and walks away from both it and his chance to drive away. "Is this where Sam was staying, too?" His step falters, but he corrects it immediately— _was,_ like he has already given up. Not the best start to an investigation and certainly not the right thing to say to the one person that loves Sam more than anything in the world.

Dean nods. Either he didn't notice, or he doesn't feel like commenting. With the way he's staring at Castiel like he's seeing a ghost, Castiel would bet on the former.

"Yeah, but the dude at the front desk wouldn't let me check his room. Wouldn't even tell me when he last saw him, the asshole," Dean manages to mutter, rubbing the back of his neck.

Castiel takes that in, inspecting his surroundings. No cameras that he can see, but it might be worth asking, anyway. There aren't a lot of cars in the parking lot, just five more other than Castiel's Corolla and Dean's Impala, so about a third of the rooms must be occupied. Would any of them have seen anything? 

There are so many things they have to do, and he hasn't even asked Dean about what he knows about the girl Sam was investigating. But first, he needs somewhere to drop off his stuff. "Right. And our rooms?" 

The deep blush painted across Dean's features makes Castiel’s stomach drop to the floor. He’s sure he won’t like what he’s about to hear.

"I— uh—" Dean clears his throat. "I only booked one room. Two queens," he clarifies quickly. "I just wasn't sure if you were staying. But we can ask for another room if you'd be more comfortable, which… yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Of course you'd prefer that."

He laughs nervously, his muttering stopping abruptly.

Castiel shifts his weight from one foot to the other, letting his eyes slide over the identical doors staring back at him from the motel’s facade. One room, two beds. He and Dean in the same space again. 

There’s a big part of him that recoils just at the thought of it. Τhe part that he built with his bare hands after he was cast aside, used and empty. The disciplined, cold part that was forged from pain and tears and hardened with time into an impenetrable cage around his heart. It speaks with stony logic. 

But there’s another part inside him, the one that still hurts from the wounds that have yet to stop bleeding, that stirs just at the sight of Dean. It yearns for him just as strongly as it yearns for answers. And it makes Castiel furious. He shouldn’t be feeling that. He doesn’t want Dean to look at him and see how weak he is. He wants to show him he’s moved on.

 _Look at me,_ _I’m fine_ , he wants to say, even if it’s just a lie. _I’ve changed. You don’t hurt me anymore._

Dean had avoided being in the same room as Castiel like the plague, once upon a time. He treated Cas like something dirty and tainted, that might infect him just by being close to it. Castiel won’t feel like that anymore. This will be on his own terms, and he will force Dean to spend time with him. He won’t run away this time.

“One room is fine,” he says, hoping the thundering of his heart inside his ribcage is concealed by the careful mask of neutrality he wears across his face.

Dean startles but recovers quickly. “Okay. Yeah. Come this way, then.”

The room is on the first floor, right next to the stairs. It has the same copy and paste decor that can be found in any motel throughout the country, the same boring shade of beige painted over the walls. It’s unremarkable and tiny, and it’s home for at least one night. Dean’s stuff is left on the bed closer to the door, so Castiel takes the liberty of claiming the other. 

“I got you coffee.”

Castiel looks over his shoulder to find Dean hovering by the door but not stepping inside. It makes something bitter form in the back of his throat. Then Dean gestures towards the desk against the wall opposite the beds, and Castiel notices the paper cup and boxes for the first time. He walks over gingerly, removing the cap to sniff at the contents. A flat white and, as a quick inspection of the smaller box proves, blueberry muffins. Something clenches inside him. 

“I just… I figured you might be hungry,” Dean says. “Um, but if you want, we can stop somewhere for lunch.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Castiel takes a sip from the coffee. He uses the time it takes for the hot liquid to travel down his throat to regain his composure. He’s not here for Dean. “It’s fine, we’ve wasted enough time already. We should start searching for Sam.”

Footsteps approach him, and he involuntarily tenses up. But Dean reaches past him and grabs the large box sitting on the desk. “I have a lead. I found out he was working with the local sheriff in his investigation. I figured we could pay her a visit together and ask a few questions. I even have cinnamon buns to bribe her.”

“We should check the motel for security cameras, too,” Castiel adds, grateful that there’s a mutual purpose to guide their conversation away from awkwardness. “And we have to ask around to see who knew Sam.”

“It seems a lot of people did,” Dean says, leading the way back outside. He heads straight for the Impala. “But people might be more willing to help us out if we get the sheriff involved. Hey, what are you waiting for?” He’s standing with the driver door open, one foot already inside when he notices Castiel is frozen in the middle of the parking lot. 

The sleek, black car waits for him as if not a day has passed. If he concentrates hard enough, Castiel can almost smell her leather seats. It used to be a comforting place for him, much like his apartment. It was Dean’s Baby, and everything _Dean_ made him feel happy and safe. That’s not the case anymore, though. Castiel’s gaze snaps up from the Impala to Dean, and whatever expression is written across his features, it’s enough for Dean to understand.

“Shit,” Dean curses under his breath. “Uh, you can follow me in your car?” he suggests, trying to smooth the situation over.

Castiel shakes his head. He’s stronger than this. The Impala is just a car, and Dean is just an ex, and Castiel won’t let one person dictate the rest of his life. No matter how much that person has hurt him. “It’s fine. It’ll be quicker if we take one car.”

He closes the gap between him and the Impala in two long strides, opens the door and slides into the passenger seat before he can get cold feet. 

Dean is bent over, eyes wide as he stares at Castiel, who is resolutely ignoring him. 

It’s done now. He can’t take this decision back, no matter how much his stomach flutters with butterflies. This is just muscle memory from all the times he was sitting in this very same space while Dean was driving them around town. He’ll be fine. “Let’s go,” he says, eyes trained to the road ahead.

After a moment of hesitation, Dean takes the seat behind the wheel and starts the car. He pulls out of the parking lot and navigates through the streets with ease. They don't speak, the air heavy between them with everything they haven’t said and neither wants to think about. Castiel chooses to concentrate on his coffee while munching on one of the muffins. They are good, and Dean was right. He _is_ hungry. But there’s no time for lunch.

They arrive at the sheriff’s office in under ten minutes. Following Dean’s example, Castiel marches straight up to the main door and enters. Asking for Jody Mills points them to one of the offices in the back.

Sheriff Mills has short brown hair and a kind face, and she eyes them both in confusion. “What can I help you with?”

Dean passes the bakery box over to her, mentioning the name Donna in his explanation. Castiel is baffled how he already has acquaintances in a town he’s never been before, but that’s Dean. Pulling people to him like the sun pulls the planets to orbit around it. Castiel was attracted to his light, too, once upon a time. But like every moth getting too close to the flame, he’d ended up getting burned.

When he tunes back into the conversation, Dean is introducing them. “I’m Dean Winchester, and this is…” He eyes Castiel unsurely. “My colleague, Castiel Novak.”

“Winchester,” the sheriff repeats, looking between them. The open box of cinnamon buns is left on her desk, forgotten for now. “Any relation to Sam Winchester?”

“He’s my brother,” Dean admits. “And he’s also the reason I’m here. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him since Saturday night.”

The sheriff’s eyes widen. “Are you saying he's missing?”

Dean nods his head. “Won't answer his phone. We drove all the way out here and we still haven't found him. I talked with the guy at his motel, but he wouldn't even tell me which one his room is. I get the feeling he hasn't seen Sam in a while, either. You were working with him, weren't you? When was the last time _you_ saw him?”

“We were investigating the same case, yes,” Sheriff Mills admits. “Ava Wilson. She was reported missing about a month ago. Her mother got in touch with Sam online, and he came out here to help.” She takes her cellphone out, presses her finger on the screen a couple of times before pressing it against her ear.

Castiel and Dean exchange a curious look while they wait. 

“You're right. It’s not connecting,” she says after a couple of minutes. She gestures for them to take the two chairs in front of her desk. “Last time we spoke was Saturday morning, I think. We were interviewing Ava’s foster mother again. Her name’s Eve Maxwell. Have you talked with her at all? She was in more frequent contact with Sam than I was.” While she is speaking she closes the door and returns to take her own seat. A notebook appears in her hand, and she quickly scribbles something on the top of the page before looking back up to them. “Tell me: what time did you last talk?”

“Around ten-thirty that night,” Dean answers. The room is small, and his chair is too close to Castiel’s. Every time he taps his foot nervously, his knee brushes against Castiel's thigh. 

Castiel's hand itches to grab his knee and squeeze. Let him know he's not alone. He doesn't give in to that instinct, though. He chooses to focus on Dean's description of what he and Sam had talked about that night. He still doesn't have all the details, and he needs to know as much as possible to find Sam.

“He seemed fine,” Dean is saying. “He said he'd been out all day and was on his way back to the motel. I think he was supposed to stop at a diner and get food first, I—uh… I was waiting for him to call me again, and he never did. Didn't answer any of my calls all Sunday, so today I grabbed Cas and drove all the way out here.”

It’s a very watered-down version of how Castiel ended up in this tiny town. He wonders if Dean’s version of his talk with his brother that night is as watered down as well.

“I understand why you're worried,” Sheriff Mills says, pen running on paper to note everything down. “If you were the last person to talk to your brother, then he's been missing for almost fifty hours now. You should have contacted us sooner.”

“Oh, believe me, I tried,” Dean answers, voice sharp.

Castiel turns to glare at him. “Dean,” he hisses in warning. This is not the time. They need the sheriff’s help.

“I understand you're upset, Mr. Winchester, but I assure you, we’ll find your brother. I want to ask you a few more questions, if you don't mind.”

The questions are familiar to both of them, and Dean answers each and every one of them diligently, even if Castiel can tell he’s itching to just be done with this. Dean’s not used to being the one sitting around and giving statements. It should be them asking questions, them out there searching. 

Then Sheriff Mills asks, “And has Sam ever disappeared for a long period of time before?”

Dean falters. For the first time, he hesitates before answering. “Once,” he admits. “But it was more than a decade ago, and back then things with my dad weren’t… good. But he’s no longer in the picture, so Sammy had no reason to run away.” He gives Castiel a quick glance.

Castiel stays quiet. John Winchester is but a ghost to him, by now. 

Without looking up, the sheriff continues, “And did anything happen in the past few days that might have upset your brother enough to make him run away? An argument, maybe?”

Dean hesitates again. This time Castiel steps in to help him. “Sam’s fiancée passed away about a month ago in a car accident. But we don’t think he’d run away because of that.”

Sheriff Mills gazes between the two of them. She adds a final note, and then she pushes herself up. “Alright, then. I’ll put out an APB and make a few calls in neighboring offices. Please leave a description of your brother and his car with Alex at the front desk and then meet me outside. We’ll go and check Sam’s room.”

The ride back to the motel is short, but Castiel puts even those few minutes to good use. It’s better than sitting in silence. Castiel has a lot of questions, but he’s not sure he knows how to ask them. Not since Dean has clammed up after he brought up Jessica. 

Castiel understands, to some extent. Losing someone that was practically family is hard, but Dean should know better. In cases like this, it’s important to keep one’s head in the game, or you might miss something crucial. 

He feels like there’s something Dean is not telling him. He just has to figure out what that something is. 

In the meantime, he searches for anything he can find about Ava Wilson and Eve Maxwell. Several articles come up on Google, and even a GoFundMe page, but he doesn’t have the time to do anything more than give them a quick skim and then bookmark them to reread later. Delving any deeper into Ava’s case will have to wait. 

They park the car and follow the sheriff to the front desk. The man straightens up as soon as he sees them walk in. 

“Asshole,” Dean mutters under his breath when the man gives Sheriff Mills the keys to Sam’s room without any fuss.

Rolling his eyes, Castiel leans closer to whisper, “She’s the police, Dean. Of course he’ll help her.”

“I was the police, too,” Dean answers, offended. His grimace is so painfully familiar that Castiel almost forgets he hates him. For a second, he’s tempted to kiss that stupid frown away, but then he remembers where he is and _who_ he’s with and sobers up.

“You’re not anymore,” he says, voice harsher than he intended. “You’re a civilian, now, so suck it up and act like one.”

Dean flinches back, and immediately Castiel regrets his words. But Sheriff Mills is already waiting for them and he can’t do much more than send an apologetic look in Dean’s way. With the way Dean’s eyes are glued to the floor, he doubts he saw him.

The door creaks open, a string of light stretching across the carpet. The curtains are drawn closed, plunging the room to darkness, but it’s evident it’s empty even before Castiel steps inside. Fumbling for a couple of seconds first, Sheriff Mills finds the switch and turns the light on, then steps to the side to let them in, too.

The room looks… fine. Castiel doesn’t have a better word for it. The sheets are rumpled, like Sam never bothered to make the bed after waking up, but other than that it’s clean and tidy. No signs of struggle, nothing that stands out to him. Sam’s bag is still on the spare chair, dirty clothes balled up inside. They find clean clothes in the closet and a toiletry bag in the bathroom. A key is left on the desk.

“I don’t see his wallet,” Dean observes, going through the nightstand. “Or his cellphone. But everything else seems to be here.”

“What about his car keys?” Sheriff Mills calls from the bathroom. The sound of cabinets opening and closing follow her words.

“Not here, from what I can see,” Castiel answers, emptying the bag on the bed. Just clothes, underwear, and a charger. Nothing else. For all intents and purposes, it looks like Sam stepped out of the room to run an errand. So why didn’t he come back?

He lifts his head and finds Dean already looking back at him. The same line of thinking is probably going through his head, too. 

Before either of the two can speak, Sheriff Mills steps back into the room, hands on her hips. “It looks like he just went out and never came back.”

“Or maybe he never made it home after your phone call,” Castiel says, eyeing Dean.

“But that proves it, doesn’t it?” Dean throws his hands out, gesturing to the room around them. “Sam wouldn’t have skipped town without his things. Something is wrong.”

“We’ll find him,” Sheriff Mills reassures him. “We’re already searching for his car, and we’ll track his phone with GPS. I’ll have officers ask around to see what we can find out.”

She lists everything that needs to be done and at the same time types furiously on her phone. Directions to other officers, probably. Castiel is relieved. It’ll be much easier to find Sam if the police are involved.

He looks around him. Dean was right. Something must have happened. Why else would Sam not return for his stuff?

_Zero Days Missing_ _  
_ _Saturday Night, 21:37_

“Don’t talk to me about dealing with my problems, when you can’t even pick up your phone to make a fucking phone call,” Sam roars, pressing his foot on the brake harder than he intended. 

The seat belt cuts into his chest as the car jerks to a stop. There’s a young couple exiting the diner at the same moment. The girl looks at him, confused, and the boy wraps a protective arm around her shoulders, leading her away from the crazy driver.

Sam shoots them a dirty look through the windshield. 

“—drag _him_ into this,” Dean is screaming, loud enough that Sam has to pull the phone away from his ear. “That’s a new low, even for you.”

“It’s the truth,” Sam says, tempted to just throw his phone out the window, crush it under the tire as he drives away, so he never has to deal with Dean’s overbearing check-ins again. “You’ve been traveling to KC at least once a month for close to a year, now, and don’t you dare tell me it’s because you’re visiting your friends. You’re just a coward.”

“Oh, I’m the coward. No, you’re right. I should have taken a page out of your book and fucked off to the middle of nowhere because I couldn’t deal with—”

“Don’t say it,” Sam cuts him off, acid threatening to climb up his throat. “Don’t you fucking say it.”

“Right. You’re so obviously dealing with the situation,” Dean says. “No need for me to worry.”

“You know, Dean, I don’t appreciate the sarcasm,” Sam says through gritted teeth. “Don’t call me again unless you’re ready to act like an adult.”

He swipes to end the call, silencing his brother’s protests. His pulse is beating right against his temples, bringing on the beginning of a migraine. 

Shit, as if he didn't have enough problems already. This case is proving to be more difficult than he’d thought, but he’s close to cracking it. He has a good lead and a suspect with both opportunity and motive. Now he only needs to find him.

He eyes the diner, wondering if maybe he’ll be lucky and his suspect will be there. Combining dinner with an interrogation would save him a lot of trouble and time. He grabs his briefcase from the passenger seat and gets out. 

Only one way to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

_ December 2015 _

Their first date is dinner and a movie, and their second is drinks at a rooftop bar before walking around the neighborhood. It’s cheesy and exactly what Castiel wouldn’t have chosen for the first couple of dates, but he has fun. Dean is charming and attentive, and just flirty enough to be both ridiculous and alluring at the same time. How he manages it remains a mystery, but Castiel is not afraid to admit he’s smitten already. To himself, of course, not out loud.

When Dean offers to drive him home in his big muscle car, Castiel accepts and is the one to lean in for their first kiss, barely a minute after they’ve parked in front of his apartment. When he pulls away, his lips are still tingling, and he finds the same dazed expression mirrored in Dean’s face. He reaches to cup his cheek and pull him in again. 

Dean drives away ten minutes later, lips bruised and swollen, and Castiel climbs up the stairs to his apartment with a newfound spring in his step. He falls asleep thinking he can’t wait to see Dean again. 

It’s why he finds himself holding Dean’s hand as they stroll along the wooden stalls decorated with string lights and Christmas garlands. The chill of the night makes his breath fog with every exhale and he shivers with every gust of wind, but Dean grins every time he catches his eye, making Castiel’s heart miss a beat.

“I expected it to be more crowded,” Dean says, guiding them through the people. 

“It’s still early. The closer we get to Christmas, the more people will come,” Castiel says, gazing around them. The Christmas market is not empty, but they are not squeezed in the throng, either. It’s comfortable and kind of romantic. Warm lights, happy faces, the scent of warm wine in the air. 

“We better grab ourselves some churros now, while the line isn’t too long, then.” Dean waggles his eyebrows, and it’s hard to resist kissing him. So Castiel doesn’t. He still tastes of the beer they bought to nurse while walking around when they first got here. 

“I’d rather have funnel cake,” he murmurs against Dean’s lips, and he feels them stretch into a smile. 

“What, you think because this is only our third date, I’ll give in?”

“Come on, I’m buying.”

With a quick peck, Dean pulls away. “How about this: I buy you funnel cake, and you buy me churros.”

“Deal.”

Still holding hands, Castiel leads the way towards the tall tree in the center of the market. The food stalls are all there, so it’s easy to grab both their snacks and continue exploring. There’s a ferris wheel that he wants to get on, if only because the view of the town lights will be amazing from up there.  And he might also want to kiss Dean while at the top. He’s a little sappy, but he thinks he is entitled to it. He hasn’t been on a successful date in years, let alone something that is steadily heading for a serious relationship. Or at least, he hopes it is. He hopes Dean wants that, too, but it feels a little early to ask.

When they’re passing by the queue, he turns to Dean, a hopeful smile on his face. “Wanna get on?”

“What? Oh, the ferris wheel?” Dean’s eyes travel all the way to the car hanging at the top and follow it in its slow descent. He winces. “Hey, I should warn you, I’m not the best with heights.”

“‘Not the best with heights,’ as in, ‘you would rather not look down,’ or…”

“As in, I get palpitations just thinking about being up there.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him. He’s not going to push Dean to do something he’s not comfortable with, but he  _ is _ going to tease him a bit, first. “We were at a rooftop bar a couple of days ago.”

Dean lifts a finger. “That was only one story, and I didn’t look down the whole time we were there.”

“Look at you. Braving your phobias for me.”

“What can I say, I’m a catch.” Dean shrugs, before leaning in to steal a quick kiss. “But seriously, Cas. I don’t think I can go up there. My stomach’s already in a knot just looking at it.”

“It’s fine. We won’t go,” Castiel promises, squeezing his hand. “They have a band playing in an hour, I think. We can watch that.”

Dean exhales, relieved. “You’re awesome.”

“What, you thought I was going to force you to go up there?”

“An old girlfriend did. She insisted it’d be perfect, and I could be just like Noah from  _ The Notebook, _ or some shit like that. She was nagging me for about an hour or so, until I finally gave in.” He shudders, his grip around Castiel’s hand tightening. “It wasn’t as cute as she thought it would be when I had a panic attack at the top and they had to get us down ASAP.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, squeezing his hand back. It earns him a thankful smile. “That must have been horrible.”

“It’s very embarrassing to think back on it now,” Dean allows. 

Castiel doesn’t push him for more. If he’s learned something in the two months he’s known Dean, it’s that he has a lot of walls around him. Opening up to Castiel has been a work in progress, and Castiel is willing to wait for him. Just talking about his fear of heights is more than he would have expected.

They walk around for a couple of minutes in silence, admiring the handcrafted gifts being sold in the different stalls. Finally, Castiel says, “Can I tell you a secret?”

There’s a mischievous glint in Dean’s eyes when he turns to look at him. “Always.”

“I have no idea what  _ The Notebook _ is.”

Dean freezes in the middle of a step, their joined hands pulling Castiel back, too. “Seriously? You’ve never heard of it?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Is it a movie?”

“It’s a chick flick. You know, the kind of movie girls watch when going through a breakup, eating a bucket of ice cream?”

“And you’ve seen it?”

A faint blush blossoms across Dean’s cheeks, making his freckles seem darker. “An ex made me watch it.”

“Aha.” 

Castiel can’t stop himself from smiling. But Dean is adorable, and by now, Castiel has started to recognize his tells when he lies. He decides he’s going to let this one slide. He finds a pair of mittens with reindeer faces on them and makes Dean try them on. It’s cute, and the flirty, teasing tone Dean uses when he pulls Castiel close, to wrap him in an ugly scarf with real Christmas bulbs on it, is even better.

They laugh, moving to the next stall, where Dean finds a hand-carved wooden moose that can be used as a tree ornament. He buys it without a second thought—or an explanation for his maniacal cackling—and moves to the side to pay for it while the seller wraps it carefully in a gift bag. 

Castiel gazes at the rest of the wooden ornaments on display. Most are the usual ornaments one finds in such stalls—bells, trees, snowflakes, reindeer—but there are more hand-carved animals, too. A bear, a dozen or so kittens and dogs, birds, bunnies and, in the back, hidden behind a stack of turtles, is a small mountain of bumblebees. Without thinking about it, Castiel grabs one and brings it closer to inspect. It’s painted yellow and black, and its wings are silver. He hooks his finger through the string on its head and lets it hang, watching the silver glint under the Christmas lights.

“Hey, seen anything you like?” Dean asks, coming over with his gift bag. 

Castiel looks up, closing the small bee in his fist. “Ah, no. Just browsing.” He returns the ornament back to its place, but not before Dean sees what it is.

“Hey, come on, show me.”

Huffing, Castiel points to the pile of bumblebees. “It’s just a bee.”

“It’s cute,” Dean says, grabbing the same one Castiel just put down. “Do you want it?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Come on,” Dean insists. “I’ll get it for you.”

“No, Dean. You don’t have to.” Castiel makes a move to stop him, but Dean’s already turning to the seller, calling him over.

“It’s just a bee, Cas,” he says over his shoulder, passing his card to the man. “Think of it as an early Christmas present.”

In the next moment, he’s passing a paper bag with a red bow on it over. Castiel gazes at it, stunned, and only looks up when he feels Dean pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says, flustered. He’s not sure if it’s from the gift or the chaste kiss, but his stomach is filled with butterflies, all of a sudden. He hasn’t felt this way since he was in high school.

Dean winks, before taking his hand again. “You’re welcome. Come on, I think they’re setting up for the concert.”

There’s a crowd gathered in front of the stage, some parents carrying their children on their shoulders to see better. Dean and Castiel squeeze through the people and have to stand close together to watch as the band begins playing carols and Christmas songs. Somewhere between  _ Little Drummer Boy _ and  _ Let It Snow _ , they both silently agree it’s time to move on. 

Dean leads them away, checking over his shoulder every now and then and sending a smile in Castiel’s direction. It makes something warm fill his chest. They’re walking through the maze of stalls when Dean looks up and stops suddenly. Castiel comes to stand next to him, confused.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look.” Dean points to something above their heads. “It’s mistletoe.”

“They have a lot of those hanging around,” Castiel observes, narrowing his eyes at it. He’s sure he’s seen at least half a dozen among the garlands while they were exploring the market.

Dean tugs him closer, face softening. “Now you owe me a kiss.”

Castiel chuckles. “I’ve been kissing you all night without mistletoes.”

“Come on, it’s tradition.”

Dean’s a lot more serious, all of a sudden. He licks his lips before his eyes fall to Castiel’s mouth, making his throat come up dry.

“Well, if you insist,” Castiel manages to say.

Dean lets go of his hand, but only to wrap an arm around Castiel’s waist. The other comes to rest behind his neck, pulling Castiel in. When their lips touch, it’s different. Electric. Like a shockwave travels down his body, making his toes curl in his boots. It’s nothing like the sweet and soft kisses they’ve exchanged all day. It reminds Castiel of those heated ten minutes in Dean’s car that had left him dizzy with want. But this time, when Dean licks the seam of his lips and Castiel opens up for him, he wants so much more.

He pulls away and Dean almost stumbles trying to follow him. The green of his eyes has almost disappeared with how wide his pupils are.

Castiel swallows. “We should probably head back,” he says.

“I— yeah,” Dean says, distracted, and he tries to kiss him again.

It takes every ounce of self-control Castiel has, but he manages to push him away. “We should go to my place,” he clarifies.

Finally catching up with what Castiel is suggesting, Dean’s eyes darken. “Yeah. You’re right. Come on.”

His hold on Castiel’s hand firm, Dean leads them out of the market and towards his car. 

Castiel wakes up the next morning an hour earlier than usual and with a warm body pressed behind him. They’re both still naked, covered only by a thin sheet and a blanket. Dean has an arm thrown over him, chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. He’s still asleep, but he stirs when Castiel tries to roll over and look at him. 

“Five more minutes,” he murmurs sleepily, burying his head in the pillow. 

The movement stretches his neck, reveals the marks Castiel sucked into the skin just last night. The sight of them makes something stir inside Castiel. Something possessive. He’s already stuck and it’s barely their first time together. A mind-blowing first time together, sure, but Castiel is worried he’s falling too fast and he’ll end up paying for it later. He wants to get to know Dean better, first. Not the Dean Winchester he’s seen so far, that puts on his best face for families of victims, colleagues, and dates he wants to impress. The real him. What is he like with his close friends? His family? Does he like cats?

With all those questions swimming around his head, he presses a kiss behind Dean’s ear, making the other man shiver. 

“That tickles,” Dean complains, voice muffled in the pillow.

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

Hugging the pillow close to his chest, Dean murmurs his agreement and promptly falls back asleep.

Gathering his underwear from where they’d been tossed last night in their haste to remove every layer of clothing between them, Castiel tiptoes out of the room. He rushes through washing his face and teeth, grabs something warm to wear, and finds himself in the kitchen just as the sun starts rising. He’d usually just make coffee and grab something quick and easy to eat before going out to run, but today is a special day. He decides to skip his daily exercise altogether, in favor of preparing breakfast.

He’s not the best of cooks, as his friends and his mother like to remind him very often, but he wants to make something nice for Dean. First impressions matter.

His plan fails spectacularly, almost as soon as it starts. As he tries to reach the mixing bowl on the top shelf—stashed there when he first moved in and his mother bought all kinds of kitchen utensils that he’d never seen or planned on using in his life—everything else comes tumbling down. 

Nothing breaks, but the sound is deafening. He winces, staring at the mess he made. So much for a good first impression.

“Was World War Three declared while I was sleeping?” Dean yawns, shuffling into the room. He has the blanket thrown over his shoulders, but only his boxer briefs underneath. His hard abs and toned thighs are just as attractive as they were last night. It’s very hard not to stare.

“I had a disagreement with the pots,” Castiel says dryly.

Dean chuckles. “So I see. Do you need any help showing them who’s boss?”

“No, it’s fine. You’re my guest, so get comfortable. There’s coffee if you want a cup.”

“You’re my hero,” Dean exclaims, grabbing a cup from the still-open cabinet. “What were you trying to make?”

Crouched as he is on the floor, gathering the stuff that has fallen, Castiel winces. “Pancakes.”

“Where’s the batter?”

“Haven’t gotten to that part yet,” Castiel admits, shoving everything but the mixing bowl back onto the top shelf. He retrieves the ingredients he needs, putting them on the counter, then finds the recipe on his phone. It seems simple enough. 

Dean is leaning with his hip against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hands. The blanket is still on his shoulders. “Ever made pancakes before?”

“I’ve seen videos on youtube,” Castiel says, looking up from his screen. “How difficult can it be?” 

Dean shakes his head, placing the cup down and pulling away from the counter. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to make  _ my  _ award-winning pancakes, and you’re going to clean afterward.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him, though he’s amused with how bold Dean is already. “You’re dissing my pancakes before I’ve even made them?”

Pulling him into his arms and placing a lingering kiss to his lips, Dean grins. “Babe, I’d eat your pancakes without a single complaint even if they were the worst pancakes on planet earth—which they wouldn’t be,” he adds quickly when he sees the frown forming between Castiel’s brows, “—but you’ve been an excellent host so far, so let me do something nice for you, in return.”

“I can assure you, you did a lot of nice things for me last night,” Castiel says, not looking away. The blush forming across Dean’s face is beautiful, as is the way his lips part to take a sharp breath. There are very few clothes between them, and Castiel thinks it wouldn’t take much to lure Dean back to his bed.

Clearing his throat, Dean tightens his arms around Castiel, though he’s very firm about not closing the distance between them any further. It's exactly the opposite reaction from what Castiel expected, especially since Dean has been acting all domestic and calling him ‘babe’. 

“Still, I want to make you breakfast. Will you let me?”

Searching Dean’s face for any sign of discomfort, Castiel relents. “Okay, sure. I’ll just find you something to wear, then. We don’t want a blanket near the stove.”

Dean grins. “Awesome.”

By the time Castiel comes back to the kitchen with a pair of sweatpants and an old hoodie that should fit Dean’s slightly taller frame, Dean has the ingredients mixed and the pan heating on a burner. He gives Castiel a thankful smile for the clothes, before moving to the corner to fold the blanket on a chair and pull the clothes on.

With nothing else to do, Castiel pours himself a cup of coffee and sets the table, bringing anything he can find that people usually use to top their pancakes. 

Did he do something wrong? Because it felt like they were both on the same page, back there, before he made that suggestive comment.

“Hey, Dean,” he says, grabbing frozen berries from his fridge.

“Mm?” Dean is busy flipping the last pancake. Next to him, about a dozen more pancakes are stacked on a plate.

“I’m sorry if I come on too strong. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Dean looks up, surprised. “Oh, no, Cas. I'm definitely not uncomfortable.” The back of his neck is red when he reaches up to rub it. “I guess I'm just used to being the… uh… the aggressor, you could say—shameless flirt, bad boy and all that stuff. And then here comes you! A gorgeous man that not only matches me every step of the way, but surpasses me? I guess it just feels like I’m getting a taste of my own medicine.”

“Okay,” Castiel says carefully, sitting at the table. 

By then Dean has everything ready and is padding over, the plate with pancakes in hand. He puts three of them on Castiel's plate before taking another three for himself. The rest is left in the middle, for whoever wants seconds. “I'm not… freaking out, if that's what you're worried about.”

“Well, I guess I won't be anymore. Nutella or syrup?” Castiel holds up both, raising an eyebrow at Dean.

“Syrup, thanks.” Dean drizzles the golden liquid over his stack, adding butter on top. “Um, there is one thing, though.”

Castiel pauses, a spoonful of Nutella-covered pancakes halfway up to his mouth. He waits for Dean to continue.

“It's not that I'm in the closet, or anything, I think that's pretty clear by now,” he says, chuckling nervously. “Um, but I'm not exactly out yet. I mean, my friends know, and my brother knows, and some of the guys at work know. I think. I don't really care whether they know or not, to be honest. But… there's… my dad. I haven't exactly told him. That I'm into dudes, too.”

“Okay,” Castiel says slowly. He would have never guessed Dean has been keeping his sexuality a secret from anyone, not after how touchy and clingy he’d been on all of their three dates. 

“I’m not asking you to keep us a secret, or anything,” Dean says hastily.

Amused, Castiel tilts his head to the side. “There’s an us?”

Eyes wide, Dean stumbles over his words. “I—uh—I thought we were—I mean, if you want to. It’s not like I’m asking you to go steady, or anything, we’re not twelve.” 

He’s cute like that, blush reaching all the way down to his chest, but Castiel doesn’t want to tease him any more than necessary. He reaches across the table, catching Dean’s hand and squeezing. “Dean, I’d love to go steady with you.”

Dean’s face lights up immediately. “Awesome. I mean, _cool_ , yeah, that’s cool.” He shakes his head, sobering up. “But what I meant to say is, with Christmas coming up next week, I’ll be visiting Dad. He lives in Lawrence, so it’s not terribly far from here. We can still see each other, just… um, maybe while I’m staying with him I won’t be exactly available all the time. My dad, he, uh, he’s very big on family things. He expects me there for Christmas, but we can spend New Years together. If you don’t have any other plans.”

Castiel nods, still holding his hand. “I understand. You’ve never tried to hide who you are when we’re together, in public or not, so if you just need a bit more time to tell your dad, I understand. And I support you.”

A lopsided smile blossoms on Dean’s face. “Thanks, Cas. That means a lot. And I promise I’ll be over all the time to take you on dates. Lawrence is not that far from KC.”

“You better be,” Castiel says, pulling his hand back to wave a warning finger at his new boyfriend. “I have a whole list of festive things to do before New Years’.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Let’s see, visiting Santa at the mall, Christmas shopping, and I have to take you to the  _ Underdog _ . They make the best hot chocolate you’ve ever tried,” Castiel lists off.

Dean laughs, eyes crinkling. “Wow. You’ve put some thought into this.”

“Of course I have. Now eat your breakfast. Or you won’t have time to finish it before going back home to shower and change for work.”

“Maybe I’ll shower here,” Dean answers, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Castiel shakes his head, though his stomach is already a tight knot of anticipation. “Be a good boy and I just might let you.”

Castiel is finishing editing his latest article, about a man found dead in an orchard. The investigation has barely started, and not a lot of details are known, yet, so his piece is nothing more than a short review of the events for the website of the paper where he’s working. He’s hoping Dean can help him get some more information as the case unfolds. Dating a detective has its perks, and Castiel is not above using them.

As he deletes a whole paragraph, a pencil between his teeth to help him concentrate, his phone rings.

He picks it up without checking the number.

“Hello?”

A female voice greets him. “Hello? Mr. Novak?” 

“Yes, it’s me. How may I help you?”

“My name is Billie Reaper, and I work for _The Veil_ _Publishing House_. I’m calling about an article you wrote not long ago. We wanted to know if you’d be interested in a book deal about it.”

“I know the manuscript is important, Cas, but in the last two weeks, I’ve only seen you once,” Dean says, voice hushed.

Castiel can just imagine him, hiding in a corner of an empty room in his father’s house, cellphone pressed to his ear. 

“I’m trying, Dean. They gave me a very short deadline. I want this between us to work, but I need you to understand that my career has to come first, here.”

“And I totally understand. I’m not saying abandon the book, all I’m saying is that maybe you don’t have to spend all day and night working on it.”

“Writing a book is not easy. And there’s also the fact that you’re currently in Lawrence, so I can’t see how we’d be seeing each other, anyway.” Hunched over his desk, Castiel rubs his eyes with the hand not holding his phone. The baby Christmas tree Dean got him, so his bee ornament would have a home, is by his laptop, fairy lights haphazardly thrown over both it and the desk, since it’s too small to actually hang lights on.

The sun had set a few minutes ago, and now the rosy hues of the sky are melting into the dark veil of the night. It’s two days before Christmas and a day since Dean left for Lawrence for the holidays. 

“Bullshit,” Dean hisses from the other end of the line. “I tried to see you every day  _ before  _ I left, and you kept turning me down. The problem is that you don’t  _ have _ any free time. If I hadn’t come over to your place to surprise you with take-out, would we have seen each other at all before I left?”

“Of course, we would have,” Castiel lies, wincing. The truth is that writing a book is so much more work than he’d imagined. And especially since Billy asked him to come up with ways to make the case juicier and more dramatic. He’s regretted signing that contract plenty of times already, almost as many as he has danced like crazy in his kitchen for this amazing opportunity. The downside is that he’s so engrossed in his work that he’s totally forgotten about his new boyfriend. “I was going to call that night, but you got me first.”

“Sure.” Dean doesn’t even pretend that he’s believing him. 

“What do you want me to do, Dean?” There’s the beginning of a headache throbbing behind his eyelids, and he’s forgotten how he wanted to finish the sentence he was writing when Dean called him.

“I don’t know. Do something to show me that you’re really serious about us. Because so far, you’re all talk and no action.”

“No action,” Castiel scoffs. “It’s not like I can just show up there. Unless you finally came out to your dad.”

He regrets the words the moment they’re out of his mouth, but the apology gets stuck behind his teeth.

There’s stunned silence on the other side. Then, “Are you  _ serious _ ? That’s really low, Cas. I can’t believe you’re making this  _ my  _ fault.”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault,” Castiel tries to explain, but everything comes out wrong. “It’s not easy when I can’t visit you at all, when I have to be careful about what I text you because your dad might see. You don’t even want to talk on the phone more than every other day, Dean.”

“We’ve only been dating for what, a month?” Dean asks, fury evident in his tone. “How dare you talk to me like that?”

“This is not what I meant.”

“Oh, yeah, and what did you—”

Dean’s sentence is cut in the middle. There’s a shuffling noise, then distant voices talking. One of them sounds like Dean, the other Castiel has never heard before but he guesses belongs to John Winchester.

Abruptly, Dean’s on the phone again, saying, “Gotta go.”

“No, Dean, don’t you dare hang up on me now,” Castiel warns, but the line is dead before he has even finished. He drops the phone on his desk. Anger is simmering under his skin. 

This is how their phone call ended yesterday, too. So yeah, maybe Castiel is not 100% devoted to their relationship right now, but Dean is not making it easy for him, either.

And things were going so well, too. Castiel knows it’s very early, but he thinks he can fall for Dean, really fall for him, if he lets himself. After that first night they’d spent together, they’d slept at each other’s houses almost every night. They’d even found a routine for the two of them, where Dean cooked, Castiel washed the dishes, and then they fought over which movie to put on while they were making out on the couch.

And then he started working on the book. Which he still insists is not their biggest problem. Dean’s stubbornness is. And the fact that he’s spending Christmas with his father—because he’s a  _ traditional guy  _ and also a homophobe, Castiel strongly suspects—instead of his boyfriend. 

The empty page on his screen mocks him. Shit, why can’t he have nice things? Why does either his career or his love life have to suffer? He’d been so excited to spend time with Dean during the Holidays, too. 

He closes his laptop, certain that when he’s like this he won’t get a single sentence on that page. He’d rather make some tea to relax his nerves. 

Dean’s not entirely at fault here, he knows that, but it’s difficult to find some time to talk on the phone when one of them has a book to write on top of his regular work at the paper, and the other has to hide somewhere his father can’t listen to him talking. 

It’s frustrating, to say the least.

He spends his day alternating between moping on his couch,  _ Masterchef  _ reruns playing on his TV, and checking his cell phone every few minutes for a new message. Sometime around midnight he gives in and texts Dean.

He mulls over it for a whole twenty minutes, typing and erasing, typing and erasing and coming up with ten different messages that Dean might not mind his father seeing.

In the end, he settles for something short and simple:

_ I’m sorry. Please call me. _

“Three, two, one. Happy New Year!”

The world lights up in an explosion of glitter and confetti, the small apartment they’re gathered in feeling more cramped now that everyone is squeezed together, as close to the living room as they can, to watch the fireworks go off on Gabriel’s plasma TV. People laugh and embrace and kiss, and Castiel glances down at his phone.

His finger hovers over the screen, contemplating whether or not to send the message he has ready and waiting. He counts three breaths, waiting to see if maybe Dean will beat him to it, but his phone remains as silent as it has in the last week or so.  It’s not that they haven’t exchanged messages at all, but Dean seems kind of distant and distracted, refusing to call Castiel, instead asking him for space and whatever. They never got around to making plans for New Year’s Eve. 

That’s not good, is it? It’s never good, in his experience.

The only time Dean did call was on Christmas morning, a very quick call where they barely wished each other Merry Christmas before Dean had to hang up and go back to his family. Castiel was left alone in his empty apartment, save for his tiny tree and little yellow bee. 

“Happy New Year, Cassie,” Gabe says, throwing an arm around his shoulders and lifting his champagne glass in a toast.

Castiel obliges him, their glasses clinking together before they both take a sip. “Happy New Year. I hope you’re not expecting a kiss from me.”

“Already got a good one from Rowena over there.” Gabe gestures with his head towards a redhead, wiggling his eyebrows. “But I won’t say no if you want to indulge me.” 

He puckers up his lips, leaning close enough that Castiel has to turn his head away, faking a disgusted face. “Gabe, please.”

“Right, I forgot you’re a taken man, now,” Gabe says, squeezing his shoulder. A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “So, where’s the lucky guy? You guys have been dating for almost two months and I still haven’t met him.”

“He’s visiting his family for the holidays.” It’s not a lie if he doesn’t share the whole truth. “I was about to text him, actually.”

“Oh, you were? Here, let me send a festive selfie.” 

Gabe grabs Castiel’s phone out of his hands before he can realize what’s happening. Then he’s being squeezed in a tight hug, the screen showing both his confused face and Gabe’s Blue Steel pose before there’s a snap and Gabe hits send.

“There you go,” Gabe says, returning the phone. “I bet you he’s not having as much fun as we are.”

“I bet,” Castiel repeats, wincing. He looks at the checkmark underneath the photo, indicating it was sent successfully. He doesn’t have much choice left, does he?

_ Happy New Year. Wish you were here. I miss you. _

But no answer comes. 

Not in the next hour or so he manages to stick around the party, either. When he can finally admit to himself that he’s too upset about Dean giving him the cold shoulder, and possibly ruining their relationship when it has barely begun, he decides it’s time to go home. He finds Gabe doing shots in his kitchen and thanks him for the invitation.

“Leaving so early?” Gabe is a little tipsy, but not enough that his eyebrows don’t furrow with worry.

“I’m just a bit tired,” Castiel says, ignoring the shot glass someone is trying to pass him. If he’s going to be drinking any more tonight, it’s going to be in his own apartment, when he’s alone and there’s no one around to see how pitiful and heartbroken he is. “I’ll call you one of these days,” he promises, turning to leave.

“Drive safe,” Gabe calls to his retreating back. “And text me when you get home.”

His apartment is dark and empty when he gets back. He throws his keys on the side table and misses, but he can’t bother to gather them now. They can wait. 

It’s almost two in the morning and Castiel isn’t sleepy at all. 

He changes his clothes into something more comfortable and grabs a beer from his fridge, ready to spend the first few hours of the new year in front of his TV, waiting for a message that will probably never come.

He’s just settled on his sofa with a thick blanket he dragged from his bedroom, when his phone lights up with a new message.

Could it be?

He lunges for it, beer bottle falling from his hand and spilling on the floor. He taps on the screen to make it open, and his heart jumps a little. It’s Dean, but the message is not what he expected. He reads it a couple of times, trying to understand what it’s saying.

_ Look out your window. _

Slowly, Castiel realizes what this is. His whole body warms up, fingers tingling with excitement. Before he can get up and go to the window to see for himself, a second message arrives.

_ I really hope you’re home, cause I’m freezing my ass out here. _

That settles it, then. Happiness blossoms inside him, carrying him to the window in less than a second, and there: it really is Dean, with a Santa hat on his head and a stupid grin on his stupid, gorgeous face. 

Dean raises his hand in a small wave, leaning back against the Impala. It’s below freezing outside, but it doesn’t show in the least in how at ease Dean looks, all long, lean lines. 

Castiel types back a response.

_ Come upstairs _

Dean’s eyes are as green as ever when Castiel opens his door, his freckles dusted over flushed cheeks. He smiles, tongue darting out to lick the corner of his mouth, where Castiel likes to press a soft kiss when they part for the day to go to work. He holds out a box wrapped in red paper with a gold bow on top. “Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

Castiel melts. Everything inside him turns into a puddle and all the worries that were crowding his brain just a second ago fade away. He looks up at Dean like he can’t believe he’s actually here.

“Surprise?” Dean says, his face falling a little. “I know we didn’t discuss this, but… I hope it’s not too late to celebrate together.”

“What happened?” Castiel asks, still trying to wrap his mind around what’s happening. Dean’s here. Really here. “Where were you, all this time?”

“Um, mostly work after I got back from Lawrence. I’m sorry for going AWOL on you, I just… there was some stuff I wanted to deal with.” He chews on his lip and holds out the present again. “We didn’t see each other for Christmas, but better late than never, right?” He looks cute with the Santa hat, and uncertain like the first few times they’d met, and he still wasn’t sure of what to make of Castiel.

Heat pools low in Castiel’s belly just looking at him. He takes the gift out of Dean’s hands, setting it aside immediately. 

Dean’s eyes widen, mouth opening to say something, but Castiel beats him to it, grabbing the front of his jacket and yanking him forward, crushing their mouths together. It takes but a second for Dean to catch up and melt against him, to wrap his arms around Castiel and guide them both deeper inside the house. The door is kicked closed behind them.

The first to go is Dean’s jacket, followed by his belt and Castiel’s shirt. A path of shed clothes leads straight from the door to his bed, where Dean drops Castiel with sure hands that press into his skin, with kisses that make him burn and twist and open for him. 

“You’re here,” he gasps while Dean’s busy sucking a mark on his throat.

“Of course, I’m here,” Dean murmurs against his skin, his stubble grazing Castiel’s skin and setting his blood on fire. He comes up to kiss him deeply and firmly. To whisper against his lips, “I missed you, too.”

“I don’t want to fight,” Castiel admits, cupping Dean’s cheeks in a short reprieve from the urgency. 

Dean turns his face, presses a kiss against the inside of his palm. “I don’t want to fight, either. I should have come see you sooner.”

“You’re here now,” Castiel points out, pulling him down again, hands caressing, fingers exploring. They meet in the middle, bodies rolling together.

It’s slow and sweet, and Castiel gasps Dean’s name against his skin as he comes. Exhausted and blissed out, he stares up at him, heart-filled in a way he’s never felt before.

The only light in the room comes from the street outside, slithering through the curtains Castiel hasn’t closed all the way. It illuminates Dean from the back with a silver glow that makes his eyes shine, and Castiel has never wanted anything more in his life. To hell with the book and to hell with all the money he can make. He’ll drop everything if it means he gets to keep Dean here, in his bed.

“I’ll talk to Dad,” Dean promises, bodies still entwined, lips still close enough to touch. “I’d rather have been with you on Christmas than him. Can we do that next year?”

Something behind Castiel’s ribs swells and blossoms and overflows every crevice of his body, warming him up all the way from the inside. He’s in love, he realizes, the words just barely catching behind his teeth as he surges forward to pour everything into the next kiss. 

It’s early, too early. But maybe Dean understands anyway, without him saying it. Maybe he feels the same way, too, and with the way he pulls Castiel against his chest, kisses him to breathlessness, it’s so easy to believe it.


	7. Chapter 7

_ October 2019 _ _  
_ _ Two Days Missing _

“Look what I found.”

They’re back in the Impala, this time following Sheriff Mills’ car to Eve Maxwell’s house. Dean squints down at the phone Cas is holding out to him, trying to see what's there while also glancing at the road ahead. He doesn't want to hit a tree, or something, because he's too distracted by everything going on.

“A GoFundMe page?”

“Set up by Eve Maxwell,” Cas says, taking the phone back. He scrolls down, scanning the information written there. “It’s raising money to help in the search for Ava, apparently.”

“How much money have they raised?” Dean asks, relieved when his voice doesn’t break. It's been a long, emotionally draining day and it's nowhere near finished yet.

Cas purses his lips. “They have a set goal of ten grand, and they’ve raised a little less than four thousand, so far.”

“Wait, that’s not bad,” Dean says. “Ava has been missing for what? A month?”

“I’ve found plenty of articles about her online,” Cas says, tapping furiously on his phone. “It’s made the headlines in a lot of local news sites and papers. The whole state of Nebraska knows her face, by now.”

“Yeah, Sammy read about her online before coming out here, too.” Dean doesn't think back to all the arguments he and Sam had about this case. About Sam starting that online advice thing, about getting too involved with Eve and Ava, about even thinking to come out here. He doesn't.

_ I told you so,  _ is the last thing on his mind when his brother is still missing.

They’re driving to the outskirts of the town, where the houses are not built as close together and the yards are bigger. He knows Ava was staying at a foster home, but he’s not sure about all the details. Sam always insisted he couldn’t share too much information about an ongoing investigation, even if Dean was a former police officer. It was bullshit.

“It’s curious,” Cas mumbles.

Dean looks over to him. It doesn’t escape his notice that Cas rarely looks back; another nail to his heart that he put there himself. “What is?”

“I don’t know. The message the mother has written underneath feels weird. She keeps talking about  _ us _ and  _ me _ , and there’s not much about Ava. Listen to this: ‘We need all the support we can get, to get through this hard time. Help us return my Ava home.’ Doesn’t it feel weird to you, too?” Cas asks, chewing on his lower lip.

Dean clears his throat, purposefully looking everywhere but at Cas’ mouth, no matter how soft and inviting it looks. “I—maybe? I don’t know, man. She just lost her daughter. What was she supposed to write?”

Castiel sighs, putting his phone away. “You’re right. Maybe all the cases I’ve worked so far have made me paranoid.”

“It won’t always be the mother,” Dean jokes, hoping his nervousness doesn’t show in his voice.

“Or the husband.” Cas laughs, shaking his head. He turns to gaze at Dean, a soft smile on his lips that makes Dean’s pulse race. Then, as if remembering the history between them, his face falls. With a haunted expression on his face, Cas turns to face forward again. 

“Look, Mills is pulling over,” he says, voice rougher than usual.

There’s something hollow inside Dean. He’s glad for the distraction.

The house they’ve arrived at is two stories high, with chipped light blue paint covering the entire facade. Broken toys and wilted flowers are scattered everywhere around the neglected yard. The driveway is empty, but Sheriff Mills marches up to the front door and knocks three times.

“Comin’, comin’.”

The screen door opens, and a petite woman looks suspiciously between them. She has silver strands mixed among her brown hair and dull green eyes. 

Instinctively, Dean reaches for his pocket, before he remembers he has no badge to flash.

“Sheriff,” the woman acknowledges, though she’s staring at both Dean and Cas. “I hope you bring me good news.”

“I’m afraid not, Eve. Can we come in?”

Eve Maxwell hesitates, but then her grip on the door relaxes and she steps to the side to let them in. Absurdly, Dean thinks back to Thomas Ramsey doing the same thing when Dean went over his house to question him. Weird, he hasn't thought about that case in a long time.  Although, seeing Cas has brought forward all kinds of memories.

He shakes himself out of the déjà vu, and follows Mills inside.

The house is in the same condition as the garden, cluttered to the point of feeling claustrophobic, though at least it’s mostly clean. They are shown to the living room and made to sit on couches that have seen better days, while their hostess turns off a surprisingly new and expensive television.

Dean imagines ten grand could help a lot, around here.

At the sound of hurried footsteps from somewhere in the house, Eve snaps her head around. “Jake! I told you not to run up and down the stairs.”

The footsteps become slower until a dark-skinned boy peeks his head around the door. “Sorry, Eve.”

“Go back to your room, can’t you see I have visitors?” She shakes her head as the young boy disappears again. Noticing Mills’ raised eyebrows, she wraps her arms around her body, raises her chin; she's too guarded for Dean's liking. “Jake said he was sick this morning, so I let him stay at home.”

“He’s lucky you didn’t have a morning shift at the dry cleaners,” Mills says dryly.

Dean senses children missing school is not something unusual for this house, though the frequency can’t be too high if they’re still allowed to live here. Still, in Mills' shoes, he'd be keeping a close eye on Eve and her foster kids.

“I assume you haven’t found my daughter,” Eve says, taking the seat across from the sheriff. She seems fairly happy to ignore both Dean and Castiel. “Or my car.”

“No, I’m afraid we don’t have any updates on those matters. These are Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak.” The sheriff gestures at the two of them, and they greet the woman politely. 

“Policemen in training?” Eve guesses, clearly unimpressed.

“Investigative journalists, actually,” Cas says, taking over, cutting Dean off before he can point out that he used to be one of the best detectives in KC. “We’re here looking for Sam Winchester. He hasn’t contacted any of us since Saturday night.”

“Wait, he’s missing, too?”

“Yes, we think he is,” Mills confirms.

Eve turns her attention to Dean. “So, you having the same name is not just a coincidence, is it?”

Dean suppresses the urge to say something rude, like  _ duh _ . He has to remember he's a civilian now. He's not in charge here, Mills is.

Eve groans, burying her face in her hands. “What else will go wrong? First Ava, then that dumb Ruby gets my car stolen, and now my lawyer disappears, too? Am I cursed or something?”

Next to Dean, Cas tenses. Without thinking about it, Dean lets his leg press to his more firmly. They used to be able to communicate just like that, exchanging even the vaguest of thought with a single look. But now Cas just pulls away like he’s been burnt.

“When was the last time you spoke with Sam,” Sheriff Mills asks, staying focused on her job. Unlike Dean, who is a mess and can’t even give his  _ missing brother _ his sole attention. Just how fucked up is he? He was right to stay away from Cas back then, and Cas is right to not want anything to do with him now.

“I don’t know. Friday, maybe?” Eve says, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “I took the weekend off to rest and keep company to all the kids. Then, Sunday, Ruby called from the diner saying somebody stole the car while she was working, and she had to walk back home. I had to deal with that; I couldn’t be babysitting a grown-up man, too.”

“But did he say anything weird to you?” Dean jumps in, desperate for any information on his baby brother. “Anything that might have caught your attention, even if it seemed unimportant at the time.”

“I’m sorry, he didn’t. All he said was he was going to talk with that Brady kid, again.”

“And who’s Brady?” Cas asks, looking between Mills and Eve Maxwell. Dean recognizes his business face, all stoic and unreadable.

“Ava’s boyfriend,” Eve says, at the same time Mills adds, “He’s the one who first noticed Ava was missing.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that no one has any idea what my brother was doing on Saturday.” It’s like Dean suspected all along. He was the last person to have talked with Sam. And he’d wasted all that time he could have been searching, waiting around. 

An idiot.

He’s a fucking idiot.

Sheriff Mills turns back to Eve, but her next words are lost on Dean. There’s a buzzing in his ears that drowns everything else out. Sammy may be dead, and all because he didn’t come out here fast enough.

He’s assaulted by the image of his brother in a ditch somewhere, face frozen in a horrified expression, left at the mercy of the cold and the vultures. The next image that comes to him is worse, in its own way. Sam in a shallow, unmarked grave, somewhere Dean will never find him, never see him again, alone. 

Bile rises at the back of his throat, a hand curling over his stomach on instinct.

There’s talk happening around him—something about interviewing people—but he can’t concentrate enough to understand what they’re actually saying. His mind is stuck in a loop of all the horrible ways some monster could have murdered his brother.

A gun, clean and quick.

A rope around the throat.

A knife plunged through the heart.

An axe.

He looks up, finds Cas looking back at him, a worried frown between his brows. There’s a question in the way he tilts his head, but Dean can’t answer. He can only follow Mills as she gets up, shakes hands with Eve Maxwell and leads them out of the house.

Gutted.

Run over by a car.

A blunt trauma to the back of the head. 

Every crime scene he’s been to flashes right before his eyes.

He hears the sound of a car door closing, the engine waking up, then someone driving away, but he only stops walking towards his own car when he almost walks right into Cas.

“Are you alright?” Cas asks, not unkindly.

Dean blinks. A shaky breath escapes him. “I— shit, I don’t know.”

Cas looks around them, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. He stays right there, between Dean and the Impala, barely a breath between them, unaware of the ringing in Dean's ears. “Mills said she’ll send someone to talk with Bill Gallagher, see if he knows whether Sam came back to the motel after talking to you, and she’ll have people calling hospitals in the area. She gave me the address for a diner where Sam ate, most days. She said we should go and ask around, since he was going to grab dinner when you guys talked.”

Dean can only nod. 

Cas searches his face for a moment, expression tight, but then he steps out of Dean’s personal space and towards the passenger side.

Dean gets into the car, following Cas’ direction on autopilot. Soon they pull up in front of a shabby building with smudged windows. Mechanically he reaches for the door, ready to open it. 

Cas stops him, a warm hand on the crook of his elbow, the pressure of fingers closing around his arm and steadying him, grounding him.

Dean looks at him, startled. His skin is burning where Cas is touching him, but neither pulls away. Castiel only squeezes.

“Dean, are you okay? I mean, with everything we’ve found out so far...”

“Things don’t look good,” Dean finishes for him. 

Cas’ jaw tightens for a second, but he doesn’t look away. He swallows. “We’ll find him. It’s what we do, right? You and I, we used to be a team. A damn good one. Despite everything.” 

“What if it’s too late by the time we find him?” Dean asks, his deepest fear finally out in the open. It hangs heavy between them.

Castiel’s hold on him softens, but he doesn’t let go. It becomes more of a caress than a grip. “Do you think Sam’s dead? Deep inside you, do you think he’s hurt?”

“I don’t know.” It’d be easy to reach and take Castiel’s hand. It’d take just the slightest of movements. Dean doesn’t. “I’m scared. I don’t want to think about him… about something happening to him and me not being there. After everything, the world wouldn’t be so cruel.”

“No,” Castiel agrees, voice soft, considering. “I don’t think it would, either. We just have to get to the bottom of this, and we’ll find him.”

He gives Dean one last squeeze, and without another word, he steps out of the car.

Dean is left to watch his back as he enters the diner. Shaking his head, he snaps out of it. Cas is right. Whatever sort of breakdown this is, it has to wait for later. Sammy is his top priority right now, he doesn’t have the time to call his therapist crying.

The smell of frying oil hits him straight in the face the moment he steps inside. The diner is long and narrow, with cheap, scratched tables pushed against the window, most of them occupied. Cas has claimed one of the seats lining the counter, and Dean takes the one next to him.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

Castiel has his fingers threaded together, hands resting on the counter, and he looks down to them, sighing. “Don’t mention it.” Short, simple. Clinical.

These few hours he’s spent with Cas bring back memories of when being together all the time was the default. He has to remember Cas doesn’t feel the same way. Not anymore. But it still feels nice when Dean lets himself imagine it.

A soft voice cuts right through his thoughts. “Hello, what can I get you?”

The girl behind the counter is short, with dark hair, and doesn’t look a day older than eighteen. Out of habit, Dean’s eyes fall to the nametag pinned on her dress. Ruby. Where has he heard that name before?

“I’ll have the Jack Daniel’s burger and a beer, thank you,” Castiel answers, without hesitation. There’s a laminated menu next to him, now that Dean pays closer attention.

He has no idea what to get, though. He hadn’t even realized they were here to eat, in the first place. “I— uh, I’ll need a little more time.”

Ruby doesn’t look up from her notebook, but she nods. “Anything to drink?”

Dean doesn’t need to look at the menu for that. “Just a coke. Hey, can I ask you something?”

She’s already stepping away but stops, half-turned towards them, big brown eyes looking directly at him. “Sure.”

“We’re looking for Sam Winchester. Ever heard of him?”

“Sam the lawyer?” she asks, coming back towards them. “He’s a regular lately. What about him?”

He steals a glance at Cas and finds him tilting his head as he takes her in, all the intensity of his blue eyes focused on her. It’s a familiar game for the two of them. Dean asks the questions, and Castiel observes. He takes in the person across from them, studies their reactions, fills in the gaps of Dean’s notes later, so they have a full picture. Back in the day, they’d caught quite a few criminals that way.

“He’s my brother. Last time we talked was on Saturday night. He said he was gonna grab dinner and call me back from his motel. He never did. He’s missing.”

Ruby looks between them, her face unreadable. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Did you see him? On Saturday?”

She hesitates, a hand coming up to smooth the front of her dress. “I did. He came in just as I was finishing my shift, but I left before he ordered. I can’t help you with what he did afterward.”

“Are you also living with Eve Maxwell?” Cas speaks up out of the blue. When Dean looks over in question, he shrugs. “She mentioned she had a kid named Ruby who worked in a diner.”

Eve did say something like that. Dean remembers now, too. It was a good idea to ask Cas to come and help him, because it’s becoming more and more apparent Dean needs him here. He can’t handle this on his own.

“I am,” Ruby says, her hold on her notebook tightening. “Ava was my sister. Sort of. Sam was always asking me all sorts of stuff about her while he was eating. He was asking all of us.”

“ _ All _ of you?” Dean inquires.

“Me, Brady, Eve, some of the other kids at school.” She gestures with her head towards two boys sitting in one of the booths in the back. “That’s Brady over there, the one with the varsity jacket. The other one is Andy Gallagher. His dad, Bill, owns the motel Sam was staying at.”

Bill Gallagher’s son is friends with Brady Allen? Interesting. Dean files that information away for later.

“Brady is Ava’s boyfriend, right? How come he was the first one to notice Ava was missing, instead of you or Eve?” Castiel asks, making Ruby turn back to him.

She shakes her head, sighing. “Look, I already told Sam Winchester, just like I already told the police. I don’t think this investigation will lead anywhere. Ava was talking about running away from this hellhole from the moment I met her three years ago. She probably finally had enough of all this shit and left.”

Castiel’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “All this shit?”

“You know. Small town, everyone is gossiping about everyone, shitty jobs, even shittier pay, and living with Eve is not exactly easy. She takes just enough care of us to keep us, and that’s only because she gets a pretty good check for each of her foster kids every month.” She catches them exchanging a look and laughs. “What, you thought Eve Maxwell was a decent person? No one is a decent person in this stupid, tiny town. Not even the sheriff.”

“Hey, Ruby!” Andy lifts his hand, grinning widely. He gestures Ruby over, his good mood not at all spoiled by her rolling her eyes. 

“Call me back when you’re ready to order,” she tells Dean and Castiel, before grabbing a pot of fresh coffee and heading over. 

Dean watches her fill the boys’ cups, laughing at whatever they are telling her. Andy is much more animated than Brady, who sits hunched over his half-eaten eggs. Cas pushes the laminated menu towards him, catching his attention again. 

“So, how much of the money Eve Maxwell manages to raise do you think is going to go towards searching for Ava?”

“As little as she can get away with, I guess.” Dean fingers the rounded edge of the menu. The selection is pretty standard for a diner in such a tiny town. A cheeseburger will do, even if he’s not sure how much he can eat with the way his stomach is tied into a knot of nerves. 

“What do you think of the boyfriend?” Cas asks.

Dean looks over again. Brady is pushing his plate towards Andy, who looks more than happy to finish it for him. 

“He doesn’t seem happy, that’s for sure. We still need to talk to him. Eve did say Sam wanted to ask him a few questions.”

“Maybe he knows where Sam went after leaving the diner,” Cas agrees. He eyes the two boys for a second. Andy looks like he’s ordering dessert, grinning up at Ruby and puffing his chest out. “It doesn’t seem like they’re going anywhere. Let’s eat, and we’ll corner him afterward.”

Dean nods, before calling Ruby back to give her his order. They eat in silence, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as it did back in the car. They’re settling into a new routine, slow and careful. 

From the corner of his eye, Dean watches the two boys. Not much is said between them, though Andy doesn’t seem able to keep his mouth shut long enough to chew. When he does talk, it’s loud and animated, and he keeps looking towards the counter.  It’s kind of amusing. Dean can recognize the signs of an awkward, young boy with a crush, having been one himself once. Speaking loudly and then checking to see if Ruby noticed, straightening up when she comes around to refill his coffee or chat a little, the embarrassed grin when she rolls her eyes at him. 

“It seems Brady and Ava weren’t the only couple in their group of friends,” Cas points out, gathering some of the BBQ sauce that has dripped on his plate with a fry. He’s frowning at his plate, but Dean knows him well enough to recognize when his antennae are out and following one of his targets. Currently, they’re entirely focused on Brady and Andy.

“It looks pretty one-sided to me.”

Cas glances over his shoulder, bringing the beer to his lips to take a sip. “I guess you’re right. Should we go talk to them now?”

“I don’t think we’re allowed to question people. As you keep pointing out, I’m not police anymore,” Dean says around a mouthful of cheeseburger.

Cas raises a smug eyebrow at him. “That never stopped  _ me _ before.”

Dean can’t say he doesn’t remember. “Let’s at least wait for him to leave, so we don’t have multiple witnesses of us meddling in an investigation.”

Cas agrees, humming, and goes back to devouring his burger. The guy must have been really hungry.  Dean only eats because he knows he has to. Working on an empty stomach has never been helpful, least of all when the case is so personal. 

“You turn into a total diva when you’re hungry,” Cas used to complain, a stupid smirk on his face, every time Dean’s hangry crankiness showed. It made him regret ever showing Cas that stupid commercial. Cas had a sharp tongue to begin with and didn’t need pop culture references to broaden his reserve of snarky comebacks.

There’s a kick to his ankle under the counter. Dean looks up and from the corner of his eye sees Brady getting up and throwing some bills on the table. He waves at Ruby and walks out of the diner.

Cas already has his wallet in hand. “What are you waiting for? This is our chance.”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out of the diner in a blink of an eye, scanning the road outside for where the boy might have gone. He spots him walking along the sidewalk just as Cas appears, shrugging his trench coat on. 

They exchange a silent look, all they need to agree to follow him. 

From behind, there’s nothing to set Brady Allen apart from any other boys his age. Nothing except for the way he walks, head hung low, feet scuffing the road with every step. If he knows something about Ava’s disappearance, then he’s very good at faking the concerned boyfriend. Guilt manifests in different ways, though. Dean learned that the hard way during his time as a detective.

This could be the last person to have seen Sam, he reminds himself. He’s not a boy; he’s a witness, at best, a suspect, at worst.

“I think he’s heading home,” Cas says after a while, looking at the houses they are passing. White fences, freshly cut lawns. A good neighborhood, nothing like the area where Eve Maxwell and her foster kids live.

Dean nods, quickening his steps to catch up to the boy.

“Brady Allen?” he asks when he’s almost next to him. 

Brady visibly tenses, eyes flying between Dean and Castiel flanking him on either side. “Who are you guys?”

“We’re investigative journalists,” Cas feeds him the same line they’d told Eve Maxwell earlier. It’s not exactly a lie. Castiel likes his half-truths. He passes over one of his cards. “We’re here looking for one of our colleagues, Sam Winchester. He was investigating Ava Wilson’s case.”

Instead of stopping, Brady picks up his pace. He buries his neck in his striped collar. “And why are you talking to me?” 

“We’ve been reliably informed that Sam was planning on meeting with you again.” Cas walks with his head held high, spine straight. The perfect picture of authority. It still startles Dean that this is the real Cas, not the shy journalist he caught snooping in his crime scene all those years ago.

“You heard wrong,” Brady snaps, spinning around to face them. His lower lip is trembling, his fists clenched. “I’ve told the police and that lawyer, plenty of times, that I don’t know where Ava is. Maybe she did run away like Ruby insists, but I didn’t help her.”

“Getting a little defensive there, aren’t you, buddy?” Dean can’t blame him. He’s just a kid, after all, confronted by two very big and very intimidating men that are especially talented at playing good cop and bad cop. But he needs answers and that’s the fastest way to get them.

“Wouldn’t you be if everyone was blaming you for your girlfriend's disappearance? If people accused you of hurting her?” He looks away, and he pushes his hands in his pockets, though it does little to hide their shaking.

Cas and Dean exchange a glance. 

Cas nods. 

“And who, exactly, is accusing you of hurting your girlfriend?” Dean asks. “Because I’m only here to talk about Sam.”

Brady goes pale. The most useful things slip out when one lets their emotions take over. Guilt and anger are especially good for that. 

“I didn’t,” he stammers. “I didn’t hurt her. But your colleague, or associate, or whatever, obviously thought that. He kept staring at me and asking all those questions, trying to corner me. He kept insisting that he had more things to talk about, but he never did.”

“What did you talk about on Saturday?” Cas asks. 

“Nothing.” He looks between them, licking his lips. “It’s the truth. I didn’t see him. I never returned his call. I was just tired of all this shit. I needed one weekend to myself.”

“Is that so?” Dean asks, lowering his head and catching his eye. He doesn’t want to sound threatening, not when the guy can realize at any moment that he doesn’t have to talk to either of them and starts complaining to the sheriff about harassment.

“Look, Sam Winchester called me on Friday, but I never agreed to meet him. That’s all I know.” 

Dean decides to drop it. Mills will probably be calling him in for questioning, too. Maybe he’ll be in the mood to talk then. “Alright. But if you do remember anything else, give us a call.”

Brady snatches the card Cas is still holding out and shoves it in his pocket. He turns to leave, checking over his shoulder every now and then to make sure they’re not following him.

Cas squints after him, body turned towards Dean. “Do you believe him?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Maybe. We’ll see what he tells the sheriff later.”

Humming, Cas starts on the way back to the diner, where they left the car. The sun has already set, the humidity of the night settling, stifling, over them. There’s not much left for them to do but wait for Sheriff Mills to call them back with news about what Bill Gallagher said. 

Having to wait around for news is a new experience. Dean has always been a hands-on guy, the first to throw himself into action, always at the head of the investigation. Taking the back seat is as unfamiliar to him as… well, literally taking the backseat in Baby. It’s not something he does.

He eyes Castiel, walking next to him, lost in his own thoughts. This must be what it’s usually like for him. Pull strings, ask questions, take everything you know to someone with authority and hope for the best. This is what he did with every case he worked with Dean. Unlike Dean, Cas is in his element.  He’s the best person to ask for guidance.

"So, what do you usually do when there’re no more questions for you to ask?”

“Go for a drink,” Cas says, deadpan. He sees Dean staring at him and he shrugs. “It’s not like there’s anything else to do.”

“Right.”

“Do  _ you _ have any better ideas?”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, wracking his brain. Nothing comes up. 

Castiel smiles, probably having no difficulty reading his expression. “Let’s find a bar, then.”


	8. Chapter 8

_ February 2016 _

Dean takes a sip of his beer. He scans the room for the hundredth time, feeling his palms sticky with sweat. Cas places a firm hand on his thigh and it’s only then he realizes he’s been tapping his foot nervously the whole time.

“You know, I don’t have to be here for this,” Cas says, giving him what is clearly meant to be a reassuring smile.

“No, it’s fine. I want you here.” The ideal solution would be not to do this at all, but since Dean promised he would—and he’s not going to go back on his promise now—then doing it together seems like the best option. 

The diner door jingles and Dean doesn’t even have to turn and look to recognize the heavy sound of the boots that follow it. He turns around all the same, locking eyes with his father, and all of a sudden, he’s sixteen again and just got caught holding hands with a boy. A shiver travels down his spine, and he can almost feel his father’s stinging handprint on his cheek. The instinct to jerk his leg away from Cas’ touch is strong, but his resolve is stronger.  Whether this thing with Cas works out or not, he’s coming out to his dad today. At some point in his life, his father is going to have to accept that Dean likes wide, strong shoulders and a thick cock as much as a tiny waist and soft breasts. And that point is right now. Dean is ready to start living his life to the fullest.

He rolls his shoulders back and lifts a hand to wave his father over. Something twitches in John’s face as he comes closer and sees Cas, but thankfully, his expression remains carefully blank. A conscious decision, Dean is sure.

“Hello, son,” John practically growls as he proceeds towards the empty booth across the scratched table. 

“Hey, Dad,” Dean says, and feeling Cas ready to stand, he starts getting up, too. Gotta be polite, right? He clasps his hands in front of him in an effort to cover their trembling and clears his throat. “Um, this is Cas. Cas, this is John Winchester.”

“Nice to meet you, Cas,” John says, and something in his expression relaxes at the mention of Cas’ name. 

“It’s nice to meet you, too, sir. Dean has told me a lot about you.” 

Cas returns John’s handshake with two quick but firm pumps, which John acknowledges with a low grunt. Dean’s happy to note he doesn’t look displeased, though.

“I can’t say the same for you,” John comments, taking his seat, and Dean and Cas hurry to follow his example. John’s gaze flickers from Cas to Dean and back. “Although, he did mention working with a reporter on a homicide case.”

“That’s me, sir,” Cas says, easily. 

Dean’s eternally grateful for the way Cas lets the conversation follow its natural course. He doesn’t push for Dean to tell his dad what’s really going on between them, and Dean’s sure that if he chickens out, Cas'll just go on pretending to be someone Dean works with, for the duration of the meal. 

Which is why Dean is going to come clean. 

As soon as they have had something to eat, he decides, just as the waitress comes over to their table for their order. 

For the next hour or so they keep the conversation on safe topics, like how Sam’s doing at school, and how season two of  _ True Detective _ —which Dean finally managed to binge-watch last weekend—was not as good as the first one. To all the people around them, they look like any normal family catching up on their news over brunch on a slow Sunday, but something ugly twists in Dean’s stomach. He knows this fragile moment can be shattered at any second.

When their plates are almost empty, and John seems relaxed by the way both Dean and Castiel have let him take charge of the conversation, Dean figures it’s as good a time as any. The second beer did little to help Dean’s nerves, but Cas’ presence has done wonders for his courage. 

He clears his throat. “So, Dad, there’s something I wanted to tell you,” he says, addressing his plate. He hears his father shift in his seat, and Cas’ knee finds his under the table, a warm, steady pressure that gives him the strength to meet his father’s gaze. “Um, Cas and I are dating.”

There. It was that simple. The biggest confession he’s ever made to his father was five words, took three seconds and burns like cheap whiskey down his throat while, simultaneously, bile fights to rise up. In hindsight, it could just as easily have been, “Dad, I’m bi,” which is both shorter and more precise, but Dean doesn’t really have the mental capacity to process that at the moment, for his father takes a sharp breath, nostrils flaring.

“Is that so?” John says, sharply. His hold on his beer has become tight enough that Dean can see his fingers trembling, but then John turns his head, just so, to take in the people around them—the real families enjoying their time together, the waitresses carrying trays around the place, a cute couple sharing a milkshake across the room. When he turns back to them, his expression is unreadable. 

“I don’t know if it’s wise to mix your personal life with your work,” John says through gritted teeth. 

“Our working relationship is already over,” Cas is quick to reassure him, shooting a questioning look in Dean’s direction. “I wouldn’t use Dean’s connections to my advantage.”

That’s not exactly the truth. Dean has already gotten Cas access to a crime scene and passed him information on cases he knows will make for intriguing articles—if not books, down the line—but it was all with Rufus’ stamp of approval. Still, his father is better off not knowing about it. 

“Is that so?” John repeats, making Dean’s blood turn to ice. “Because the way I see it, Dean can get confused sometimes. Is this one of your phases?” The last part is addressed to Dean alone, like Cas isn’t even there. 

“Dad, this is serious,” Dean says, hating the way his voice shakes. Cas finds his hand under the table and squeezes, and Dean only hates himself more for being in his thirties and still afraid of his fucking father. People his age are not crying about coming out, they are responsible adults who have their shit together. 

Clearly John thinks so, too. “Oh, grow up, Dean,” he says, gesturing for the waitress to get him another beer. “You’re too old for this.”

“Actually—” Cas starts to say, and the look of determination and fury in his boyfriend’s face is something Dean will forever love him for, but he cuts him off. This is  _ his  _ battle.

“I’m sorry if it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. Now you can either accept it, or…” He lets the end of his sentence hang. Or what? Is he never going to talk to his father again? The person that raised him, taught him how to fix cars, was his role model for the better part of his life? Can Dean really do that?

Thankfully, it doesn’t look like he’s going to have to find out. His father sizes him up for a second, mouth twisting uncomfortably, but then he shakes his head. “Fine. It’s not like we have to talk about it now. I talked with Rufus yesterday about the gang that goes around blowing up ATMs. What’s up with that?”

Dean deflates. It’s as blatant a change of subject as Dean has ever seen, and Cas is practically vibrating with irritation next to him, but Dean will take what he can get. Shoving their problems under a rug to deal with later is the Winchester way, and John’s reaction was far better than Dean expected, anyway. No yelling, no cursing, certainly no threatening. Being in public probably helped.

They don’t stay long after that, the conversation too stiff and awkward to be bearable, so Dean pays for everything like the good son he is and bids his father goodbye. He doesn’t miss the way Cas’ eye twitches when John shakes his hand this time but judging from the way John’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, Cas is giving as good as he’s getting. Clearly, he’s not about to roll over and accept John’s bullshit like Dean has done his whole life. Another reason to leave as soon as possible. 

He slams back against the seat almost as soon as he’s inside the Impala, letting the familiar scent of leather and engine oil wash over him. 

Cas sits next to him, eyes narrowed at John crossing the street a few feet away from them. “No offense, Dean, but your dad’s kind of an ass.”

Dean can’t help the chuckle that rises up his throat. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Cas turns to look at him. “I’m sorry about pushing you during Christmas.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean doesn’t know how to finish that thought. Christmas with his dad is always an exercise in patience, especially since John insists both he and Sam stay there as much as possible, so they can have  _ family time _ . But this year had been extra-taxing thanks to the tension between him and Cas, not to mention the extra hours he’d had to put in at work once he’d returned, due to a higher-than-usual surge in holiday crime. John is a problem they’ve addressed now, though, and Cas is getting better at balancing his work and personal life. His book is coming along nicely, or so Dean gathers from the excited babbling that follows every phone call by the striking-yet-intimidating editor that he works with, one Billie Reaper. Still, Dean wouldn’t change a thing.

“I really need a drink,” he says at last, and Cas shakes his head, amused.

“I don’t know if we can find a bar open before noon on a Sunday,” he comments. “But I have some beers back at my apartment, and maybe I can help you relax. If you’d be interested in that.”

It’s embarrassing how his cock stirs with interest so soon after an encounter with his father that should have killed every hint of his libido, but all of the intensity of Cas’ stare is focused on him, and Dean’s always had a weakness for those baby blues and the promise he can see reflected in them. Besides, he thinks coming out to his father is something he ought to celebrate.

“No, Dad, that’s not it, at all,” Dean tries to say, but his father is too far gone to listen to reason. 

“Are you sure he’s not taking advantage of you?” John asks, and Dean takes the phone away from his ear and puts it on the table. He needs a moment to pull himself together, and his father has a good ten minutes of ranting left, anyway.

Sighing, he rubs at his eyes. His back hurts from being hunched over a desk for the better part of the day, and with as many reports and papers as he’s filled out today, it’s a miracle his vision hasn’t gone blurry yet. After brunch with his father last week, he’d considered himself lucky to have gotten away with such a mild reaction, but of course, Lady Luck had to come back and bite him in the ass. Since then, his father has been calling him every other day and somehow, they always end up arguing about the same topic: Castiel.

Honestly, Dean is tired of this shit. He’s told his father a hundred times that he’s serious about this, and that yes, maybe they are moving a bit fast, but it has nothing to do with his job or Cas using him to get inside info on crimes. Just the thought of his father believing something like that disgusts Dean, but John is stubborn as a mule.

Sam, who loved Cas when he met him a couple of weeks after the holidays, insists that their father just needs some time to get used to the idea. Well, Dean can give him time, he thinks, noting that his phone has gone suspiciously silent. 

He picks it up and, sure enough, his father is almost at the end of his rant, his usual list of arguments—which Dean is convinced John has written down with bullet points and makes sure to keep by his side every time he picks up the phone to call—nearing its end. 

“Are you done?” Dean asks, as soon as his father takes a break for a breath.

“Did I convince you yet?” 

“No, not really.”

“Look, son, I’m only saying this for your own good,” John says, and Dean sighs. It would be a very good moment for an emergency to come up right about now.

Of course, it doesn't, and Dean’s stuck listening to his father for the next twenty minutes. 

The things he does for… his boyfriend. Yep, that was totally how he was going to end that thought.

“And this is the bedroom.”

The realtor opens the door to an airy room with white walls and a big window on the wall to their left that lets in the hazy sunlight of late March. His phone buzzes in his hand and he excuses himself to answer it, leaving the door open for Dean and Cas to take a closer look. 

While Cas moves to inspect the electrical outlets, Dean goes straight for the built-in closet. 

It’s… fine. It’s a nice apartment, he guesses, with a very nice balcony, but the kitchen doesn’t have enough storage space, and the shower looks like it was made for hobbits. Dean doubts he fits in there standing straight up, and all his dreams of making out in the shower post-orgasm went down the drain as soon as he set foot inside the bathroom.

“I like the view,” Cas comments, hands loosely held behind him as he gazes through the window. “Though we’ll have to get you some dark curtains.”

“It’s too far away from work,” Dean says, absolutely not pouting like a five-year-old.

The corner of Cas’ lips twitches in amusement. “It’s barely a twenty-minute drive from the station.”

“It’s too far away,” Dean insists.

“Well, if you say so.”

“I do say so.”

He huffs, sticking his hands in his pockets and coming to stand next to Cas. It’s not a bad view, he thinks. It might be nice to wake up to the park across the street and the sun rising behind the city line across from it. He tries to imagine himself living here, and he comes up blank.

“It’s the best one we’ve seen so far,” Cas says, his hand finding its place around Dean’s waist and pulling him closer. He presses a kiss against his temple. “It doesn’t have to be permanent. You can move in here for a while and we keep our ears out for something that you’ll like more.”

“It seems like too much trouble,” Dean admits. “Why move into this place and unpack all my stuff, just to pack it all up again a month later, anyway? I wish I had more time to look.”

He’s not blaming his landlord for wanting to renovate Dean’s current apartment for his daughter to move into but giving him more than a month’s notice would have been nice. It’s inconvenient, searching for a new apartment on such short notice.

“How about we call it a day?” Cas suggests. “We can go grab burgers for dinner, and we continue looking at listings tomorrow. How does that sound?”

“Like a nightmare,” Dean whines, throwing his head back. “I mean looking at more apartment listings, not the burgers part,” he’s quick to add.

Cas shakes his head, pressing his nose into Dean’s hair. It’s comforting, Dean has to admit, and makes him feel slightly better. Cas always makes him feel better.

“I’ve been thinking,” Cas says, as soon as the waitress has brought their orders. “You could move in with me.”

“What?” Dean sputters, choking on his beer. He has to fight through a coughing fit before he’s ready to continue. “Move in with you?”

“Temporarily,” Cas says, throwing a fry in his mouth casually, like he didn’t just ask his boyfriend of  _ four  _ months to move in with him. “Until you find a place you like. Or, you know, even permanently, if you want. You have plenty of stuff around my apartment already, anyway.”

Taking in the shock that must be written all over Dean’s face, Cas shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it since you told me your landlord is kicking you out.”

“Right,” Dean says, chuckling awkwardly. He rubs the back of his neck, trying to seem like he wasn’t completely blindsided by this suggestion. “Are you sure about this? I mean, it seems like a big step to take.”

Cas stares straight at him, the blue of his eyes making Dean feel like air between them is charged enough to produce sparks. Last time Cas looked at him like that, Dean got laid, and, depending on his answer, it might still be happening tonight. ,

“I’m sorry if I haven’t made myself clear,” Cas says, never dropping his eyes. “I know that my work takes up a lot of my time, and yours does, too, so seeing each other is not always easy. But, Dean, I’m not in my twenties anymore. I know where I want this to go, and I thought that you did, too. If you think moving in together now is too soon, then fine, I’ll wait, but if you feel the same way, I don’t see the point in wasting time. I like cooking with you, I like falling asleep with you and waking up to you, and I like spending time with you. To me, taking this step now makes sense.”

Dean takes a bite of his burger, chewing slowly to avoid having to answer. Moving in with Cas is scary. What if things don’t work out between them? What if Cas realizes he only likes Dean in small doses and being together the whole day is too much? And then there’s the matter of John, who still pesters Dean with phone calls. It’s not every day, now, but it’s at least once a week. Cas would be furious if he knew about the calls and hiding them from him will be difficult if they’re living together.

But not impossible, he thinks. He could make sure that whenever he answers his father’s calls, Cas is out of earshot or Dean’s not at home. It could be possible. And to be honest, Dean really enjoys the few times a week he sleeps over at Cas’ place. He always sleeps better, wakes up calmer, and having breakfast with his boyfriend after a good-morning blowjob is definitely the best way to start his day. Cas’ apartment is pretty close to the station, too. 

And as Cas said, it can just be temporary, for now.

“Alright,” he says, not missing the way Cas’ whole face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Let’s do a trial period for a month or so, and then we decide. How does that sound?”

“It sounds perfect, Dean.” 

Cas is practically glowing when he turns his attention back to his burger and knowing that  _ he _ ’s the reason for it leaves a pleasant heat coloring Dean’s skin for the rest of their dinner. What’s more, knowing that Cas sees Dean as a long-term thing—maybe even a rest-of-his-life thing—leaves him breathless with wonder. Dean knew _ he  _ was falling hard and fast, but to know that his feelings are returned, now that’s certainly something.

When they stumble inside  _ their  _ bedroom that night, giddy and eager to get their hands on each other, Dean makes sure to take his time taking Cas apart. He uses his tongue and his fingers, until Cas is a writhing mess beneath him, moaning and desperately asking for him, and then pushes inside him in one slow, firm thrust. He keeps his rhythm steady but hard, pounding into Cas until they both see stars. 

As he holds Cas close to his chest after their shower, inhaling the scent of his citrus shampoo, Dean feels ready to burst with it. 

“Hey, Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“You know I love you, right?”

Cas stirs in his arms, turning his face to better look at Dean, affection written all over his expression. “Took you long enough to say that.”

“Wow, a guy tells you he loves you, and that’s your answer?” Dean jokes weakly, though he’s sure Cas can easily call his bluff, his cheek pressed right over his frantic heartbeat.

Lacing their fingers together, Cas pulls closer to give him a long kiss that makes butterflies flutter inside Dean’s stomach like he’s some schoolgirl.

“I love you, too, obviously.”

There’s no stopping the butterflies now, and Dean finds he doesn’t care. He rolls them over, fitting their bodies together again, intent on celebrating this moment. 

It turns out that living with Cas is so easy that Dean wonders why he ever waited for his landlord to kick him out to take this step. Sure, they have their fights and their arguments, but Dean loves Castiel more than his pride, so he makes sure to always apologize and try to do better. And why wouldn’t he? He’s living his best life right now—he’s in love, he’s living with his boyfriend, his work is going great, Sam is visiting more regularly from California and he’s doing awesome at law school. 

There’s just this teeny, tiny, black spot in his mood, which goes by the name of John Winchester and is currently in the middle of another rant. 

“You’ve changed since you met him, Dean,” John complains from the other end of the line, and though he sounds genuinely hurt, Dean can’t help but roll his eyes.

If they were speaking face to face he’d probably never dare to do that, but phone conversations can be nice like that. 

“Dad, I haven’t changed. I’ve always been like this and you just refused to see it.” 

_And I refused to tell him_ , Dean thinks, propped against their bedroom wall as he is. He thought that after all these months his dad would have finally seen reason, but here they are: it’s June, John is still refusing to accept Dean’s relationship, and Dean is still hiding every time he sees his father’s name on the screen of his phone, lest Cas gets a whiff of what’s going and decides to give John a piece of his mind.

No, handling John on his own is the better solution, especially since Cas just got his first draft back from his editor, covered in red marks, and has been stress-writing since then. 

“No, Dean, you were never like  _ this,”  _ John says, dragging the last word out like he’s disgusted just at the thought of it. “You were never so hostile or so pushy before. Can’t you see that he’s changed you?”

“Yeah, for the better, Dad.” He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Look, I’m happy, can’t you be happy for me?”

“Be happy for you? Why? Because there’s some shady guy that has you twisted around his finger? Because everyone is laughing behind your back?”

“Laughing behind my back? Dad, the only one who has a problem with Cas is you, and not because he’s some ‘shady guy’ that has me wrapped around his finger, but because you’re a bigoted asshole that can’t accept that I’m dating a man.”

There’s a stunned silence for a moment. Then, “Shame on you, Dean. I thought I raised you better than this.” The anger is evident in his father’s voice, but Dean’s not far behind, irritation about to boil over and burn everything in its path. 

It just so happens that path leads straight to his father.

“You know what, Dad, you are right. I don’t know if it was by you, but I was raised better than this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” his father roars. 

“It means I’m done trying to work this out with you.”

“Oh, Dean. Don’t give me an ultimatum you know you can’t hold.” His voice rises at the end of his sentence like he’s amused, like Dean’s a kid having a tantrum, and that only hardens Dean’s resolve. 

“This is not an ultimatum, Dad. This is me telling you that I’ve had enough. Since you can’t accept that I’m with Cas, I don’t think there’s anything left for us to say. Goodbye.”

Pressing a button to end the call doesn’t give the same satisfaction as slamming a phone down, but it does come with a certain sense of… dare he say  _ freedom _ ? His legs are shaking and there’s that twisting feeling in his gut that always comes with disappointing his father, but for once in his life Dean knows this was the right decision. Cutting John out is a good thing. Either he gets his act together and realizes that his son’s happiness is the important thing, or they never speak again.

He puts the phone back in his pocket and leans forward to check himself in the full-length mirror he’d brought from his old apartment when he moved in—he looks a little pale, but his clothes are clean and his hair looks nice. No sign he just stopped talking to his father for the foreseeable future. Good.

He grabs the duffel bag waiting on the bed, does one last check to make sure they have everything they need, and steps out of the room. He finds Castiel in the living room, facing the windowsill Dean has claimed for his succulents, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, a soft smile on his face. The late afternoon light washes him in a golden glow, softening the lines of his face. 

God, he looks gorgeous, Dean thinks, feeling his heart squeeze inside his chest. 

“What are you looking at?” he asks, coming closer. 

Cas looks over his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’m counting the pots. How come they seem to multiply every time I turn my back to them?”

Dean shrugs. “Must be your imagination.” Definitely not him being unable to resist buying another succulent every time he passes by the florist down the road.

“Hoarder,” Cas accuses, though he turns to crowd Dean and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. 

Dean smiles against his lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Just make sure they don’t take over our apartment.”

And damn if that ‘our’ doesn’t make Dean’s heart soar right out of his body and straight into seventh heaven. How did he ever get so lucky?

Castiel looks him up and down, like he’s checking Dean’s outfit, and Dean makes a show of opening his arms and turning around. He wiggles his butt, too, for good measure and that earns him a fond chuckle.

“Ready to go?” Dean asks, nodding towards their front door.

“If you are,” Cas says, patting himself down to make sure he’s not forgetting everything. 

They check they’ve locked all the windows and that Dean’s plants will be getting plenty of sunlight for the weekend, before heading out. They’re inside the Impala, Dean’s insides doing a nervous dance, when Cas narrows his eyes at him.

“Are you okay? You look a little weird.”

“Just tired,” Dean says and sends a wink in his boyfriend’s direction. “ _ Someone _ kept me up late last night.” 

Cas stares at him for long enough that Dean is worried he’ll call his bluff, but then Cas rolls his eyes.

“Sure, it was  _ me  _ keeping  _ you _ up last night.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you can’t get enough of this,” Dean says, drawing the last word out as he gestures at himself. Teasing Cas is so familiar Dean falls into it without much thought, and it’s a welcome distraction from the worries plaguing him. He’s still tense from his talk with John over the phone, yes, but there’s also another reason for the nervousness that makes his skin itch. 

Today they’re driving all the way to Sioux Falls to spend the weekend with Bobby. Sam will also be visiting—it was his idea to begin with, actually—but more importantly, Bobby will finally meet Cas. Now, Bobby already knows Dean is dating someone, he even knows that said someone is a guy, and so far, he hasn’t gone far beyond grunting in acknowledgement when Dean broke the news to him. Dean doesn’t expect him to pull any crap like his father, but he’s still nervous. Bobby is like a second father, and he doesn’t think he could live with a second rejection.

Sam insisted that it’d be good for Dean to spend time with his family, though, especially after Dean had told him about John’s phone calls. So, Dean and Cas packed up and here they are, driving to South Dakota. 

The day has long since crawled its way into night when they finally park in front of Bobby’s, the waning moon half-hidden behind the clouds. The breeze is nippy here, despite the early arrival of summer, and Dean pulls the collar of his leather jacket up against the wind. 

Old Rumsfeld is lounging on the porch, but as soon as he gets a sniff of Dean coming closer he stands on trembling legs, his tail wagging behind him. 

“Hey there, buddy,” Dean greets him with a pat on the head. “Missed me?”

Rumsfeld presses his muzzle into Dean’s palm, turning big, brown eyes on Dean. He still looks like a puppy when he does that, Dean muses, with a tug at his heart, and he beckons Cas closer, so he can meet one of Dean’s best friends while growing up. Rumsfeld is not the lively, energetic dog he used to be, but still, every worry in the world fades away when Dean is with him. 

“You’re spoiling him again,” Bobby grunts throwing the screen door open, his mouth a pleased smile well-hidden under his beard. “No wonder he was never a good guard dog.”

“It’s not my fault he likes me better than you,” Dean says cheekily, dropping the duffel bag on the porch to close the distance between them and greet Bobby with a quick hug and pat on the back.

“We’re huggers now?” 

Sam appears behind Bobby, ducking his head to be able to fit through the too-short-for-him door frame, flashing his signature shit-eating grin. Dean flips him the bird while Bobby is too busy introducing himself to Cas to notice and that only makes Sam’s grin spread wider.

“You’re here already,” Dean says flatly, though he’s glad to have his brother for support. Not that he needs it, after all, since there’s no glaring or hand crushing happening between Bobby and Cas, so far. That’s a step up from John. 

“Wouldn’t miss you arriving here, scared shitless,” Sam stage whispers, earning a slap on the shoulder from Dean, but before he can answer, Bobby beats him to it.

“You two idjits already misbehaving? We’ve got a guest today, so go and make yourselves useful by setting the table for dinner. And get that damn bag off my porch.”

“Yes, sir,” they both answer on instinct.

Dean meets Cas’ gaze, torn between doing what Bobby asked him to and staying here to keep his boyfriend company, but Cas nods encouragingly—he thinks he can handle Bobby. Well, Dean will let him try. 

He and Sam are quick to gather plates and glasses to take to the dining table. Bobby usually uses it as a spare desk, but it’s been cleaned for the occasion. The house is also more tidy than usual, Dean notices, and there’s a casserole in the oven, which… since when does Bobby know how to make casserole?

“Don’t let him fool you,” Sam warns, coming to stand next to Dean while he digs inside a drawer for forks and knives. “I arrived early in the morning, and he’s had me cleaning the place since then. He really wants to make a good impression on Cas.”

“That’s...nice,” Dean says puzzled. “Why is he being nice?”

Sam gives him a very constipated face, one that usually means that Dean should already know the answer to his question.

“Seriously, that’s not the Bobby I know,” Dean adds in a hushed tone, but he doesn’t have time to get a proper answer out of his brother, for Bobby and Cas wander into the kitchen.

“Beers for everyone?” Bobby asks, already grabbing a four pack from his fridge and handing a second one to Castiel. They all hum their agreement and follow him to the table, Rumsfeld close behind them. That dog will never miss a chance to beg for human food, especially when there’s new, easily fooled by whimpering, people visiting. 

“I think your uncle just threatened to kill me if I hurt you,” Cas hisses as he slides into the seat next to Dean and across from Sam. There’s a hint of amusement in his voice and he reaches to scratch behind Rumsfeld’s ear, who has already taken his position for the night, carefully selected for maximum treats.

“He did what?” Dean asks, careful to keep his voice low.

“Not his exact words, but that was the gist of it. The word  _ shotgun _ was involved, and everything.”

“Ah, so you’re already part of the family, then,” Sam grins, leaning between them to place the casserole on the table. “Finding yourself on the wrong end of Bobby’s shotgun is a sort of initiation ritual, around here.”

Dean’s eyes threaten to fall out of their sockets with how much they widen—why does his family think it’s so hilarious when they threaten his boyfriend—but Castiel raises an eyebrow in amusement, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

“Is it? I should consider myself lucky, then.”

“What are you three mumbling about?” Bobby asks, pulling one of the mismatched chairs away from the table and dropping heavily onto it. With all four of them squeezed around the table, it feels crowded and full in a way it never did before, when it was, at best, Bobby and the two brothers gathered for dinner. Dean can’t deny it feels nice, though. 

Brushing elbows as they pass around plates and clink their bottles together, all the while trading jokes and stupid banter over the awesome-smelling food, fills something deep inside Dean that he’d long since thought had shriveled and died. And he can’t deny it’s mighty satisfying seeing Sam have to keep his too-long limbs in check or risk getting slapped out of the way by Bobby. 

It feels like a real family dinner, for the first time in a while, and Dean basks in it, savoring every single moment and every soft smile that Cas sends in his direction. Finally, he has what he wanted all along. For his family to accept Cas, the way John should have back at that stupid diner. 

_ His loss, _ Dean thinks later that night, with his belly full of food and Cas snoring softly next to him. Dean  _ can _ be happy, and he  _ will  _ be.

Their weekend in South Dakota passes in the blink of an eye, and by all accounts it’s an undeniable success. Bobby relaxes enough with Castiel that he pulls him by the fireplace both nights to tell him all the embarrassing stories from Dean’s childhood—while Sam chimes in with his own anecdotes—until Dean rolls his eyes and accuses them all of ganging up on him. They take Rumsfeld for walks that last less than ten minutes each, then they walk around Sioux Falls on their own and Dean points out the places that hold some of his fondest memories. He takes Castiel to the coffee shop where he had his first kiss during a summer he spent with Bobby, leads him down the roads where he learned how to drive and shows him where Bobby used to take him and Sam swimming. 

It’s almost too good to be true.

So, of course, Dean is not sure why he’s so surprised when the other shoe finally drops. 

He and Sam are doing the dishes after dinner, their second night slowly drawing to a close between the same stories retold around the fireplace and Rumsfeld’s low whining as he dreams next to Bobby’s armchair. 

The peace of the night is shattered by the ring of a phone, but Dean doesn’t realize that it’s going to change everything, at least not until he picks it up and an unknown voice says: “Dean Winchester? I’m calling from Lawrence Memorial. I’m sorry, I have to ask you to come as soon as you can. Your father was in a car accident.”


	9. Chapter 9

_ October 2019 _ _  
_ _ Two Days Missing _

There’s only one bar in this town, a quick Google search reveals on their way back to the car. Interesting, Castiel thinks. Sam was here long enough that it makes sense he’d have gone there at least once. It might be worth asking the bartender a couple of questions while they are here.

Castiel follows Dean into the poorly lit bar, taking in the mostly empty room. Except for them, there are only two more men inside, playing pool while a waitress in tight-fitting jeans brings them beers. She gives Castiel and Dean a quick nod as she passes by them, but Dean doesn’t even acknowledge her. Shoulders hunched, he makes a beeline for the bar.  Taking the stool next to him, Castiel gestures the bartender over. It’s a slow night, and though the guy might not be in the mood to be interrogated, he won’t have a good enough excuse not to answer a couple of their questions.

“Two beers. Whatever is on tap,” Castiel tells him. Back in the day he wouldn’t have bothered to ask Dean what he wanted, he’d have known instinctively, like Dean would have known Castiel’s order, too, but now his eyes slide over to Dean for confirmation.

Dean shakes his head, hands pushed into the pockets of his leather jacket. “No beer for me.”

“Fine, a beer and a whiskey, then,” Castiel amends, rolling his eyes. He should have seen this coming, though, personally, he thinks it’s still a little early for whiskey. Then again, Dean never had a problem drinking, no matter the time. Now his brother’s missing, so it’s understandable that he needs something stronger.

“Just a Coke,” Dean corrects him, giving the bartender a tight smile.

His chest growing cold, Castiel tries to force his muscles to relax, but he knows Dean caught the momentary stiffness of his posture and is now focusing all his attention on the sticky bar top. His ears are burning red.

This is the second time today that Dean’s refused a beer, or alcohol in general, Castiel realizes, watching him from the corner of his eye. All of a sudden, a whole new perspective to a person he thought he knew so well opens up before him, and it leaves him breathless and wondering. But he knows it’s not his place to ask. 

He turns his attention to the bartender instead, who brings over their order. 

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the glass placed in front of him. The cool glass is a welcome change from the flash of heat that seems to be traveling through him. 

“You guys new around here?” the bartender asks, grabbing one of the already-clean glasses in front of him and starting to wipe the edge of it with a cloth, like every bad movie stereotype Castiel has ever seen.

At least he’s bored enough to be in the mood to talk. Saves Castiel a lot of trouble.

“We’re here looking for a friend,” Castiel says, pressing his knee against Dean briefly, hoping he’ll get the message.

Dean’s whole posture changes immediately. He takes his phone out and finds a picture of his brother before passing it over to the man behind the bar. “His name is Sam. He was investigating Ava Wilson’s case. Have you ever seen him?”

The man squints at the photo but then shakes his head. “Sorry, I’ve never seen him before. Is he in trouble or something?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Castiel answers. Next to him, Dean’s shoulders fall, and he tosses his phone on the table without any care. He glares at his Coke with enough intensity that Castiel is surprised it doesn’t spontaneously catch on fire.

Another dead end. It seems that looking for Sam has been nothing but a series of stonewalls, so far. Maybe they need a change of tactics.

“But surely you’ve heard of Ava Wilson.”

The bartender snorts. “I don’t think there’s anyone in this state that hasn’t heard of her, by now,” he says, addressing the glass in his hands. “Her mommy made sure to get as much attention as she could for her little GoFundMe page.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re particularly fond of her,” Castiel points out. 

“I don’t know many people around here who are. The woman’s more trouble than she’s worth,” the bartender says, shrugging. “I’ve told her plenty ‘a times that her two girls were coming around asking for drinks with fake IDs. Like I wouldn’t know who they are in such a tiny place. She didn’t do anything to stop them.”

That gets Castiel’s attention. “Ava was coming here?”

“Sure did. She and that sister, friend, or whatever the hell they were to each other. Ava and Ruby, always stuck at the hip, always trying to trick my waitresses. I had to throw them out and threaten to call Mills if they came around again. That surely did the trick.”

“Do you think something might have happened to her?” Castiel asks.

The man laughs. “That girl had been itching to run away. You could tell from the look in her eyes. I’m surprised she didn’t skip town earlier.”

Ava’s boyfriend disagrees, Castiel thinks, and the more he learns about the case, he’s inclined to disagree, too. From the moment they went into Sam’s room, every single instinct inside him had been on alert. Something smells fishy.

“Your spidey sense is tingling,” Dean used to tell him when they were working a case together and Castiel told him he had a bad feeling, though Castiel didn’t get the reference until Dean made him watch a whole trilogy about a vigilante shooting web out of his palm.  But in this particular case, he can appreciate learning that phrase. His spidey sense really is tingling. 

He shifts in his seat, going through the list of questions he wants to ask, but a couple walks in at that moment, and the bartender leaves to take their order. 

“Shit, I was sure that Sam would have come here to drink after leaving the diner, if he didn’t go straight back to the motel. Another dead end,” Dean sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

It’s a similar thought to the one that led Castiel to question the bartender about Sam, but somehow, the way Dean phrases it strikes Castiel as suspicious.

“Why’s that? Sam never struck me as the type of person to be drinking while on an investigation.”

Dean hesitates. It’s just a fraction of a second, but it’s there, and the suspicions inside Castiel only grow bigger. Dean’s hiding something from him. 

“I don’t know, man. I mean, things have been pretty rough since Jessica... I figured he’d need a break. And with everything happening with that girl. I mean, why are people around here so blind?” Dean grumbles, his fingers white around his glass. “A girl goes missing and the moment someone starts asking questions, he goes missing, too? But no, she  _ ran away _ .”

It’s a blatant and awkward change of subject, but Castiel takes another look at Dean’s choice of drink and decides it’s better to keep his mouth shut and just roll with it. Since Castiel drove out here, it’s become more and more obvious that Dean’s been keeping a lot of secrets from him but tackling them all in such a public space is not a good idea. He’ll have to bring them up again later.

“People don’t want to think that something terrible could have happened so close to them,” Castiel says, rolling the beer between his palms. Thick droplets of condensation run down his fingers. 

“Then they’re delusional.” Dean turns to face Castiel, face set with hard lines. “One of them hurt that girl and my brother.”

“Do you believe him?” 

Dean frowns, caught by surprise at the sudden change of subject. “Who? The bartender?”

“The bartender, Brady, Eve, Ruby. Any of them,” Castiel says, tilting his head to the side. “Statistically speaking, whoever hurt Ava would have been someone close to her, which means one of them is lying.”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “I mean, Brady seems worried, the mother looks like she’s just going through the motions without feeling them, and that Ruby chick doesn’t care much. The bartender definitely doesn’t care.”

“Oh, Ruby does care. A lot.” Castiel had been watching her when she was talking to Dean, and though she’d tried really hard to come off as nonchalant, Castiel is good at reading people. He’d seen her jerky movements while she was talking about Ava, the tightness in her expression. “She’s angry.”

“Angry,” Dean repeats like he’s tasting the word. “She certainly seems to hate this place. Maybe her foster sister running away and abandoning her here made her mad.”

“Could be,” Castiel agrees. 

It’s a difficult case, he has to admit that. So far, everyone has been acting strange, from Brady basically admitting that Sam thought he’d done something to Ava, to Eve Maxwell clearly caring more about a stolen car than her missing kid.

His next thought is cut short by the first notes of a song he knows all too well. Judging from Dean’s mouth curling into something ugly, he recognizes the song, as well.

In an instant, Castiel is assaulted by a hundred memories. This song playing at bars, and every time, Dean’s eyes softening in that way that made Castiel’s nerves stir and tingle. The same song being sung off-key, while Castiel led Dean around the room in a tight embrace. The same song that played from his phone every time his screen flashed with a photo from one of their dates.

_ Their  _ song.

Their song, after two long years, in an empty bar in the middle of nowhere. 

The tension between them becomes instantly ten times thicker. Thick enough that, if Castiel tried to cut it with a knife, he’s sure the knife would break.

“I need to get out of here,” Dean says, throwing a few bills on the bar top. Before Castiel can stop him, he’s heading for the door, his pace fast enough to be almost running.

“Dean, wait.” Grabbing his coat, Castiel runs after him.

When he makes it outside, Dean is leaning against the Impala, face hidden in his palms. Every line in his body screams that he wants to be left alone, but something makes Castiel come closer, instead. 

“Dean,” he says, and no more words come to him. He’s not sure what else to say, when it feels like just a few hours ago he had nothing to say to Dean Winchester. 

“I couldn’t stay in there,” Dean says, taking the choice out of Castiel’s hands. “I’m sorry, but I just… It’s been a difficult few days, and I really don’t think I can sit through  _ that  _ without ordering a whiskey.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Castiel agrees, carefully stepping around the real subject here. He goes on, talking to Dean’s back. “Maybe we should get back to the motel. It’s not like there’s anything else we can do tonight.”

Some of the tension in Dean’s shoulders slips away. When he turns to face Castiel, he looks exhausted. Worse than when he first came to find Castiel at his apartment. 

“Come on, you need to sleep,” Castiel presses, without moving closer. The atmosphere is still charged between them; the distant echo of the song reaching them, even all the way out here. 

Dean jerks his head once, something close to a nod, but not exactly. 

The ride back is mostly silent, and though it should be less than ten minutes, the seconds stretch into hours and Castiel's stomach flutters with nerves. He can't look at anything but Dean's tight hold on the wheel. He imagines his hold on his composure is equally strained.

He shouldn't ask now. Castiel promised himself not even half an hour ago that he’d wait for a better time, but he is past the point of lying to himself, and the truth is he’s burning with curiosity. 

“You don’t drink anymore.” 

It comes out as a statement instead of a question.

Dean takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring. He twists himself to grab his wallet and throws it in Castiel’s lap. 

Puzzled, Castiel opens it and feels his eyebrows rise to meet his hairline. Tucked into a pocket with Dean’s ID is a bronze coin. Forgetting to ask for permission, Castiel takes it out and brushes the pads of his fingers over the roman numeral one set within a circle, inside of a triangle. A sobriety coin, his brain provides, but it’s a distant voice that barely registers.

“A whole year?” he hears himself asking, his words directed more to the coin than Dean.

But, of course, it’s Dean that answers. “It’ll be fifteen months in a couple of weeks. If I make it.”

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, feeling his chest cave in, crushed under something enormous. “I didn’t know it was so bad.”

Dean licks his lips and he shrugs. “You couldn’t have known. It was a whole year after we stopped talking. Although you always did complain about my drinking,” he adds, meeting Castiel’s eyes for the first time. His mouth twists into a smirk like he’s joking, but it falls flat and his lips fall, too.

“I’m sorry.” Castiel closes his fist around the coin, squeezing, and then he lets go. It’s cold against his skin. He swallows. “If you’d told me earlier I would have never suggested going to a bar. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says. “I’m usually better at controlling myself. And knowing that I have to find Sammy makes it easier to stay sober. Can’t help him otherwise.”

Arriving at their motel is the end of their conversation, and Dean darts out of the car barely a second after he’s parked. Coin still in hand, Castiel grabs Dean’s wallet and follows him. 

When he catches up with him—and the irony of spending an entire day chasing after Dean Winchester despite everything he’d promised himself earlier isn’t lost on him—Dean’s already digging through his bag for a change of clothes. Then he declares he’s going to take a shower and he disappears into the bathroom.

With nothing better to do, Castiel puts the coin back in Dean’s wallet and leaves it on top of Dean’s bag. He’s sure to find it there.

It’s a long night, both of them antsy and awkward, too lost in their own thoughts to go to the trouble of finding a topic to pretend they can still talk. They go to sleep with only a grunt of acknowledgment, though Castiel doesn’t sleep. Dean stays with his back to Castiel the whole time, but Castiel knows him well enough to be able to tell that he’s not sleeping, either.

Staring at the ceiling, Castiel goes over what Dean told him again. Fifteen months. Fifteen months since he last drank anything. It doesn’t take a mathematician to calculate that that was a few months after John’s death. 

When they were still together, Dean drank more than average, but it was never enough to get drunk, let alone to be a problem. At what point after their break up did it all become too much? Was it John’s death or was it even before that?  There’s no point in trying to find an exact point, he knows that, but his brain seems to be stuck in a loop of how and when and maybe. Which isn’t his business. Jesus, why can’t he stop thinking about it? Why does he still care so much?  It’s not like he’d be happy to find out Dean became an alcoholic because he broke up with Cas. He doesn’t think he’s that petty but damn it, he wants to know. The question is why.

It hurts, he realizes. It hurts that Dean went through something like that, and he never even knew.  All this time, he’s been thinking the worst of Dean. He’s spent years building up this image: Dean being cold and distant, playing with Cas until he got tired and threw him away. That was the only reason he could think of that Dean would have broken up with him so suddenly and without explanation.

The sobriety coin has been a wake-up call. An ice bucket thrown straight to the face. 

Dean is not a bad person, never has been, no matter what lies Castiel told himself to piece his heart back together. Dean has always been a warm, kind person who always takes care of others first, himself second. Castiel knows that. It’s why their break up never made sense, and why he can’t let go of the thought that Dean doesn’t deserve this.  It’s cruel, and Castiel can’t stand to watch him come apart and lose himself. He wasn’t there the first time, but he’s here now, and he won’t let this happen again. Dean is too precious and Castiel is—

His stomach drops right through the bed and hits the floor. It should be loud enough to wake up the dead, but the room remains silent. 

Castiel is still in love. 

After everything,  _ despite  _ everything, Castiel is still in love with Dean. 

He turns his head, watches Dean’s shoulder rise and fall with his breathing, and his eyes sting with tears. 

Castiel has never had a panic attack before, but he thinks this feels close enough. 

He breaks into a cold sweat while something hot and burning rises up inside him, choking him. He can barely breathe and the instinct to get up and run is strong. To run as far away as possible, forget about Dean and his own still-lingering feelings, and forget about how it’s a bad idea to still want Dean after all this time, when Dean clearly doesn’t want him back. But his muscles refuse to move.  All he can do is grip his sheets and ride it out. All he can do is drown in the knowledge that, when it comes to Dean Winchester, he’s an utter, hopeless mess.  Castiel has spent the last two years fooling himself, building a careful wall around his heart, only for it to collapse at the worst time possible.

Dean is pretending to sleep not even a foot away from Castiel, and Castiel feels that distance more sharply than the two years they've spent apart. 

Castiel is in love, and that terrifies him.

Castiel jerks awake to the sound of a phone ringing. His brain is still fuzzy around the edges, his throat dry, but he pushes himself up and squints at Dean, who is already up and speaking with someone on the phone.

His face is pale, and his grip on the desk chair is tight enough that he’s shaking, and Castiel wants to pull him close and soothe him. Make it all go away. 

How could he have ever thought he was over Dean? 

“Yes, thank you. We’ll be right there,” Dean says before ending the call. He grabs a shirt and throws it to Castiel. “Get up, we have to go now.”

“What happened?” Castiel asks, Dean’s tone chasing away the last remnants of sleep.

Dean’s trying to wrestle his jeans on already, while at the same time, he’s furiously texting. Without looking up, he says, “It was Mills. They found Sam’s car.”

_ Zero Days Missing _ _  
_ _ Saturday Night, 23: _ _ 46 _

Sam’s foot presses on the accelerator. The car engine roars, pushing against the wind, against its own limits.

_ Faster,  _ he wills the car, teeth clenched.  _ Come on, we have to catch up. _

The tail lights floating just ahead of him look like they’re taunting him, their distance growing bigger with every passing second. 

Sam tightens his hold on the steering wheel. He won’t let the car get away, he won’t. The killer is in there. They haven’t found a body yet, but he can feel it in his bones. This is it. The great showdown. And he won’t let the car get away.

The brake lights are the only warning he gets before the car makes a sharp turn. 

He spins his steering wheel, his whole body thrown to the side as his vehicle tries to catch up, the wheels screaming in their attempt to keep the car on the road. Somehow, he makes it. 

They pass under a street light, then the world is plunged into darkness. The road ahead stretches in the dark, through fields and meadows. His headlights are the only thing that can help Sam see where he’s going now, and it gets harder to navigate the unfamiliar area the farther they go.

He presses his car to go faster, until he can feel everything complaining about the speed, about his unrelenting abuse of the accelerator.

He’s catching up. His headlights are now touching the butt of the car in front of him, catching on the plates. He’s going to make it.

The road dips out of nowhere, the car ahead of him turning all of a sudden and changing direction.

Sam slams his foot on the brake but it’s too late. He swerves and spins, but this time, despite the screaming and screeching, the car doesn’t make it. The maneuver was too fast, too unexpected. The car hits a fence, crashes and keeps going.

Road turns to dirt and rocks, and something under the car breaks. His body jerks forward, his chest hits the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of him. He hits his head, shards raining down on him. There’s something wet going down the side of his face.

The world is black around the edges, light and shadows blurring together into one. At least the car has stopped moving. His hand closes around the door handle, his feet land on something solid. He manages to stand up, but everything is still spinning.

His knees give out.


	10. Chapter 10

_ June 2016 _

Castiel’s gaze lingers on a dirty spot on the while wall across from him. A news anchor is droning on and on in a TV somewhere in the hospital cafeteria, but only a handful of words reach Castiel’s ears. He’s been sitting in the same plastic chair long enough that his whole body feels stiff, and by now he’s sure that the sickeningly sweet smell of bleach has infused every layer of clothing he’s wearing. 

A door slides open and closed, catching his attention, but it’s another one of the nurses coming and going. Sam and Dean went through those doors an hour ago, when they’d first arrived here after driving like crazy back to Lawrence from South Dakota, and since then Castiel hasn’t had any news. 

It’s another ten minutes before Dean comes through the glass doors, looking rumpled and exhausted. He drops in the chair next to Castiel, propping his elbows on the table as if he’s too tired to support his own weight. 

Castiel immediately wraps an arm around him and presses his cheek on Dean’s shoulder, providing what little comfort he can. “How is he?”

“He’s in a coma,” Dean says bluntly, the words rushing out of him with a tired sigh. “He’s… it’s bad, Cas. They don’t know if he’ll wake up.”

“I’m sorry. Did they tell you how it happened?” Castiel didn’t like John Winchester, he’d hated the way he treated Dean from the one time he met the man, but he never wished him harm. More than anything, he wishes he could have protected Dean from this heartbreak.

Dean shivers in Castiel’s embrace. He turns his face away, but Castiel can still see the tears in his eyes. “They say he was drunk. Wrapped his car around a tree. The woman driving the opposite way wasn’t hit, by some miracle. She called the ambulance that brought him here.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s hollow, but it’s all he has to offer. In his deepest, darkest parts, he thinks that it would have been easier if John had died on impact. Both for him and his sons. This situation is only dragging out the torture for all of them. But he’ll never admit that out loud. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean sighs. He rubs a hand behind his neck, rolling his head like it feels stiff. “He’s talking with the doctors. I couldn’t stay in there any longer.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel promises, pulling him closer, tighter against his chest. “Dean, whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.”

As if speaking his name has summoned him, Sam chooses that moment to come through the doors and join them around the tiny table. Shoulders hunched, he drops his phone on the table. “So I talked with my professors, and I won’t be going back to California for at least a week, until we know more about Dad.”

“Sammy, you don’t have to. I’m here, I can take care of things,” Dean says. 

“No, I want to be here. It’s the right thing to do. I’ll, uh, I’ll stay in Dad’s house. Someone has to look after it while we figure things out, anyway.”

“You can always stay with us,” Castiel offers, but Sam shakes his head. 

“It’s fine. Someone has to be close to the hospital, and you guys are a couple of hours away.”

Castiel nods. He leans back against his chair, though he makes sure that he keeps a hand on the small of Dean’s back. “So, what now?

Rubbing a hand over his face, Dean gazes towards the door that separates the cafeteria from the rest of the hospital. “Now we wait.”

The doctors call it a miracle. 

Castiel overhears Dean telling Sam that it’s John’s stubbornness giving death the middle finger.

Whatever it is, fourteen days after they got the call about the car accident, John wakes up for the first time. Sam calls them while they’re making dinner, and they’re in Lawrence in record time.

“Is he still awake? What did he say?” Dean storms into the hospital like a hurricane of nerves and questions, Castiel barely keeping up with him, and Sam has to force him to sit down while Sam explains what he knows.

“He woke up about an hour before I called you. The nurse said that he was somewhat responsive, but he didn’t seem to understand what she was telling him. He’s still intubated, but they gave him a paper to write on.” He pulls a folded paper out of his pocket and passes it over.

It has a single word scrawled on it, the handwriting shaky and drawn out, like John could barely hold the pen when writing.

Castiel's stomach drops.

It says,  _ Dean? _

Castiel sits next to Dean, and he doesn’t complain when Dean squeezes his hand to the point of pain. He holds Dean while he looks like he’s about to break down, but then he takes a sharp breath and rolls his shoulders back. Castiel watches as every muscle in his face is forced to relax and hide his feelings, and it tears Castiel up inside that, even now, Dean feels like he has to be the brave one. 

“What did the doctors say?” Dean asks.

Sam pushes his hands in his pocket. “That we shouldn’t get our hopes up. That just waking up after such a head injury is rare, and that we should be prepared for all the changes that come with this much trauma.” He inhales, like he’s bracing himself, and Cas steels himself, too. “They said he’ll probably be able to speak and eat, maybe he’ll manage to walk with proper physical therapy, but mentally… He’ll never be the same.”

“What does that mean?” Castiel has seen victims recovering from severe brain injury before—in his line of work it’s not unheard of to interview them and their families—but he’d never realized that for all the questions he asked, he never really stopped to see what came after. All he ever cared about was what happened before—that was the story he was paid to write—and now he has no idea what an injury like this means for John. Or Sam and Dean.

“They’re talking about memory loss and, um, troubles with his eyes? I don’t know; they said a lot of stuff. It’s too early to tell, anyway.”

“But he is not going to die,” Dean cuts his brother off. 

Sam looks back, startled. “No. No, they think that he’s out of danger, for now.”

Dean nods. He pulls his hand out of Castiel’s hold and stands up. Instinctively, Castiel’s fingers flex around empty space to keep him close, but Dean’s already walking away. “Okay. Okay then. We’ll just have to take this one day at a time.”

“Dean,” Sam calls after him.

Castiel watches as Dean pauses and turns to look at his brother over his shoulder. 

“Dean, you do realize that he’ll need care all the time, right? Even if he ever gets out of the hospital, he can’t live on his own,” Sam says, brows drawing together as if he’s not sure Dean has thought everything through.

Truthfully, Castiel is not sure Dean has, either. It’s been a difficult couple of weeks, with Dean’s mood ranging from shutting everyone out and staring at a wall to spending hours at the shooting range. These days it’s hard to wash the scent of gunpowder out of his clothes, and even harder to take the beer bottles out of his hand. And yet, Castiel doesn’t think that Dean has fully realized the extent of his father’s injuries.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be alone,” Dean says, turning his torso towards his brother. He crosses his arms over his chest, his mouth a tight line of determination. “He has his sons, doesn’t he?”

Sam blinks, then gazes in Castiel’s direction like he’s asking for help. 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to help him. 

Finally, Sam says, “Dean, I can’t stay here forever. At some point I have to go back to Cali. I have school to finish, I have…” he trails off, hands open at his side in a gesture of uncertainty.

“Fine,” Dean says. “Well, then he still has me. Let’s just cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?”

When he walks away, Sam waits until he’s out of earshot before turning to Castiel.

“I don’t think he understands how much help Dad’s going to need.”

Castiel pushes himself up, knees popping, and smoothes a hand down the front of his shirt. He’s still in the clothes he wore this morning, and he feels tired and dirty. He can’t even begin to imagine what Sam and Dean must be feeling. 

“Your brother is very stubborn,” he tells Sam. He winces, realizing this came out wrong. “Dealing with your father’s injury will be difficult, yes, but I’ll be here to help him, and Bobby called last night to say he’ll be visiting soon. I’m sure he’ll move the trip up when he finds out John woke up. Once he’s stable, we’ll ask to move him to a hospital in KC so he’s closer to us.”

Sam nods. He puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and holds his eye. “Promise me that you’ll keep an eye on him. Dean can get lost inside his head, and he forgets to take care of himself. Promise me you’ll do it for him.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, confused. “Of course, I will, Sam.” Dean is, and always will be, his priority. There’s nothing that could be more important than him.

Castiel gets inside his car and immediately turns on the air conditioning. The walk from the coffee shop where he and Billie met back to his car was less than a couple of minutes, but there’s already sweat beading on his forehead, and he’s pretty sure there are stains forming under his armpits. The heat wave passing over Kansas this August is the worst he’s seen in the last few years, and he’s already dreading the higher temperatures the weather reports predict for next week.

He taps on his screen a couple of times, puts it on speaker and drops it to the seat next to him. 

Dean picks up on the third ring. 

“Hey, how’d the meeting go?”

“It was fine, better than expected actually. Billie actually smiled at me once, today.”

“What? Billie Reaper actually laughed? Are you sure it wasn’t on your expense?” Dean’s laughter comes clear down the line, and it washes like a cool balm over Castiel. 

It has been a difficult month and a half, what with John finally being stable enough to be moved to a hospital here in KC and Dean spending most of his free time there looking after his father, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Lately, Dean’s been returning from the hospital more and more hopeful, and there are glimpses of the old, untroubled Dean that Castiel fell in love with shining through more often, like now.

“Or I’m finally doing something right with my manuscript,” he shoots back, unable to bite back his smile. “What about you? How is John doing?”

“Better,” Dean says, and for the first time in a while, he sounds like he means it. “We finally got him out of bed. The nurse will be helping me take him for a walk around the garden with his wheelchair in half an hour or so. You think you can drop by? It’s a nice day.”

“Of course, Dean, I’m on my way, right now.”

Instead of taking the next right turn, Castiel drives straight ahead, and he’s at the hospital twenty minutes later. When he finds Dean, he’s pushing his father’s wheelchair down the path that leads to the fountain, his back to Castiel. 

“Dean,” Castiel calls, closing the distance between them. 

“Cas, hey.” Dean’s smile is bright when he turns to Castiel. 

The same can’t be said for John, who blinks in Castiel’s direction and frowns, trying to force his eyes to focus on him. 

The doctors explained that his brain has trouble communicating with the eye nerves and suggested special glasses, but John refused to wear them, almost as passionately as he refused the physical therapy brochures when Dean first showed them to him. In the end, he couldn’t glare his way out of physical therapy, but the glasses he kept throwing across the room until Dean was forced to accept that this was a battle for later.

Dean makes sure the wheelchair is secure, before turning and pressing a chaste kiss to Castiel’s cheek. Finally, John’s eyes widen with recognition.

A choked sound escapes his lips, and though the tubes in his throat still stop him from talking, the message is loud and clear. He raises a trembling finger in Castiel’s direction and tries to get up from his chair, angry growls substituting for the curses Castiel’s sure are filling his foggy mind.  It seems that, through all the confusion and disorientation that the car accident has left him with, there’s one thing that it hasn’t managed to erase from John’s memory—how much he dislikes Castiel. 

Dean is at his father’s side immediately, trying to calm him down, but Castiel knows better than to stick around for long, now. He tried to once or twice when he’d first visited John, but it soon became apparent that being in the room only made the man upset, so Castiel has kept his distance since then. With the way Dean was talking lately, Castiel thought that there had been some improvement in that area, as well, but clearly not.

“Dean, I’ll head back home, okay?”

Dean looks back, startled, but John is still trying to escape out of his chair, so there’s not much he can do but nod in Castiel’s direction. 

When he returns home a couple of hours later his shoulders look too heavy for him, and he has dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m sorry about Dad,” he tells Castiel, wrapping both arms around his middle from behind and hooking his chin over Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel turns his face enough to press a kiss into his hair and returns his attention to the food he’s preparing, lest he manages to burn something again. “Dean, it’s fine. Your father no longer has a filter to stop him from saying—or I guess  _ gesturing _ —exactly what’s on his mind, and he doesn’t like me, so it’s inevitable that he’ll get upset every time he sees me.”

Dean huffs, and his warm breath tickles Castiel’s neck above his collar. “Dad’s cranky with everyone, don’t take it personally. He threw a plate at a nurse just this morning.”

“Should I feel lucky he didn’t have a plate to throw at me, then?”

“Hey, no come on, that’s not what I meant.” Dean presses his face in Castiel’s neck, leaves a trail of kisses there that raise goosebumps on his sensitive skin. “Besides, you shouldn’t let my dad ruin your good mood. You said Billie smiled at you today, so what did you do to deserve that high honor?”

Unable to stop his chuckle, Castiel leans back and lets Dean’s hold become firmer around him. “Set the table for me, and I’ll tell you everything that happened today.”

“Already on it, babe,” Dean says, and every thought that Castiel had about John Winchester is pushed to the back of his mind. 

September arrives with a break from the heatwave and a visit from Sam that Dean hasn’t stopped talking about since his brother called to tell him. 

Castiel makes endless fun of him for his excitement, of course, but secretly he loves seeing Dean like this, and he’s relieved Dean will finally have some help with his father. 

What neither of the two expects is that Sam doesn’t arrive alone.

A pretty blonde with full lips and kind eyes stands with him when Castiel answers the door, almost hidden behind Sam’s large frame.

“Sammy, finally!” Dean pushes past Castiel to wrap his brother in a tight hug, only noticing the girl when Castiel awkwardly clears his throat and very pointedly steps past the two brothers to greet her.

“Hello, I’m Castiel.”

“Jessica, nice to meet you,” she says, flashing him a toothy grin. “You’re Dean’s boyfriend, right? I’ve heard all about you.”

“Can’t say the same about you,” Dean interrupts, taking his turn to shake her hand and waggle his eyebrows. “Sammy’s been hiding you from us, and for good reason.”

“Okay, you know what, Dean, that joke about you stealing my girlfriends is old,” Sam complains, pulling Jessica to his side and away from his brother.

“Nah, you’re safe. I got Cas now, remember?” Dean says cheekily, and Castiel doesn’t even try to hide his eye roll. 

Jessica seems to find the whole interaction funny, though, because she brings a hand over her mouth to cover her giggle. “Exactly like Sam described you both.”

The house fills with laughter and jokes, and Castiel finds that he enjoys Jessica’s company, especially since it’s a refreshing change from the damp mood the Winchester brothers seem to be prone to lately. He understands their feelings, of course he does, but sometimes he thinks they’re overreacting. Dean insists John is improving, and he’s slowly starting to eat and speak again now that they’ve removed the tubes from his throat. 

And speak he does, from what Castiel can tell, since John has managed to grumble his way out of the hospital. Dean is thrilled, of course, and has already found an apartment near them where John can stay, big enough to have a spare room for a live-in nurse. If John’s moving into an apartment where he’s essentially alone, then he must have really gotten better, Castiel figures. 

The move is actually the whole reason Sam made the trip to Kansas, and though Castiel hates that Dean will be spending the majority of his time setting up his father in the new house with Sam’s help, at least he gets to relax and have some fun showing Jessica around town.  The two of them fall into easy talks, like they’ve known each other for years—probably helped by the fact that they have the Winchesters in common—and so Castiel’s weekend passes surprisingly quickly between pleasant walks around town and hanging out together at his apartment. 

On Sunday evening, while Sam and Dean are at John’s house, making sure he’s settled in for his first night out of the hospital and that the nurse knows everything about all his needs and medication, Jessica sits with her feet tucked under her on the couch, a bowl of popcorn next to her.  She thanks Castiel when he brings her a new bottle of beer, but her eyes don’t move back to the screen where Indiana Jones is currently facing off the Nazis. 

Sensing her eyes on him, Castiel turns to face her, taking a sip from his own beer.

“Thank you for your company this weekend, Cas,” she says. “To tell you the truth, I was worried about being a burden when I decided to come with Sam, but I really had fun the last couple of days.”

“Don’t even mention it,” Cas tells her. “You’re good company, Jess, and you seem a good fit for Sam. I know Dean will worry less, now that he knows he has you to look after him.”

“How  _ is  _ Dean?” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and narrows her eyes in Castiel’s direction, a worried frown making her forehead crease. “Sam’s been very stressed with the whole situation, and I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, dealing with his father every day.”

Castiel shrugs, taking a sip from his beer and using the extra seconds to think about his answer. “He’s fine, considering everything. Honestly, he’s handling things better than I’d expected.”

Jess raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t look convinced. “Is he really? Because Sam is certainly worried about him.”

“Sam is away, so I get it that he might worry about everything going on here, but really, from what I know, John is getting better,” he tells her, shrugging. “Dean says physical therapy has helped a lot, as have all the medicines the doctors prescribed.”

“I guess you’d know better,” she relents. “Since you see him more often than Sam. He only has phone calls to rely on, and even those have only been in the last couple of weeks, since his father started talking again.”

Castiel winces. “I admit, I don’t see John that often. He gets upset when he sees me, so I stay away from him as much as possible,” he adds quickly.

A thoughtful expression on her face, Jess nods. She doesn’t press for more information, and Castiel is grateful when she turns her attention back to the movie. John Winchester already takes up too much of Dean’s time and mind, and honestly, Castiel would rather not have to think about him when Dean’s not around to remind him. It was John’s fault that he ended up in the hospital in the first place, anyway, why should all of them suffer for his mistakes?

Of course, he doesn’t say any of those things out loud, but he thinks about them. He thinks about them even when Dean and Sam return later that night, too exhausted to do much else besides eat leftover pizza and grunt that yes, John’s fine, and yes, the nurse looks like she can handle him. Castiel curls on the couch next to Dean, hoping that things can finally settle into a routine, and he can get his normal life back.

His parents’ house is overflowing with people, family and friends that Castiel hasn’t seen in a long time, and all of them ask the same question:

“So where is that boyfriend of yours? Your mama said he was visiting with you for Thanksgiving.”

For the umpteenth time that day, Castiel pretends to look around the room in search for Dean. “I think he’s in the kitchen. He has some very strong opinions about pies, so he’s been pestering mom for a few days now about how to best bake them.” 

Everyone nods in understanding, giving him a happy smile before asking about his work. Most of them know he’s working on a book, and like every family that respects themselves, they want to know all about it. 

Castiel’s grateful for the change of subject. He knows very well that Dean’s nowhere near the kitchen, even though he  _ should _ be there, because he’d promised Cas’ mother he’d help her with the baking. Castiel knows for a fact that’s not the case, because he himself went looking for his boyfriend two hours ago, and then again, an hour ago, and again a few minutes later, but every time his mom had shaken her head and pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

“He’s in there talking on the phone,” she said every time, strands of loose hair framing her flushed face. The kitchen is several degrees hotter than the rest of the house, and every available surface has been turned to a battle station for the upcoming family dinner, save for a corner where bags of flour and sugar are pointedly left waiting. “I don’t think he’ll have those pies ready in time.”

“Let me talk to him,” Castiel says, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

She shakes her head at him fondly, though there are tight lines around her eyes. “Dinner will be ready in an hour or so.”

“Won’t take long. I’ll be right back to help set the table,” he promises and slips out the door and into the bathroom. He goes inside without knocking, and Dean looks up with wide eyes.

“Bobby, I’ll call you back in a minute, okay?” 

Castiel watches as Dean visibly forces himself to relax, pulling his shoulders down and plastering a smile on his face that does little to convince him it’s genuine. 

“Hey, babe. Sorry, I lost track of time while talking on the phone.”

“Everything alright back home?” Castiel asks, careful to keep his voice low enough that even someone passing outside the door won’t hear them talking. 

“Oh, yeah, everything’s great. I was just checking in with Bobby.”

“The whole day? Surely one phone call was enough.”

“It’s the first time leaving Dad and Bobby alone. I’m just a bit paranoid, I guess.” Dean jerks one shoulder up, something close to a shrug but not quite. He’s nervous, Castiel realizes, reading the tense line of his body.

“Dean, we talked about this. You didn’t have to come all the way to Illinois with me if you wanted to spend the day with your father,” Castiel starts saying, but Dean crosses the room in two short steps and cuts him off.

“No, Cas, of course I want to be here. I want to meet your family and spend time with them.” The bathroom is spacious, and yet Dean crowds him, until they’re almost pressed together from chest to toes, his palms flat on the wall on either side of Castiel. “I promise you, there’s no other place I’d rather be than here.”

His breath brushes against Castiel’s lips, tantalizing and warm, and Castiel is tempted to drop the subject. Dean’s very talented at sidetracking him, but this time, Castiel has to put his foot down. 

“Dean, you’ve barely exchanged two words with my parents since we got here, and you’ve spent the entire day hidden in here. You promised my mom you’d make your famous apple pie for dessert and you haven’t even found all the ingredients you need.”

“I’ll get to it, I swear,” Dean promises, desperation leaking through his words. “It’ll be the best pie your parents have ever eaten.”

“Dinner’s in an hour.”

“That’s plenty of time to get the pie in the oven. I’ll still make it.”

“It’s not about the pie,” Castiel says, irritation fizzling through his veins. He knows it’s not right to explode like this on Dean, but he can’t help it. “We came out here to celebrate with my family and relax, and all you’ve been doing is disappearing to talk on the phone. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re cheating on me.”

Dean flinches back, as if Castiel slapped him. Hurt crosses over his features, and he presses his mouth into a thin line. “You really think I’d do that?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel is quick to reassure him and reaches to touch him, smooth a hand down his shoulder and feel the muscle fight to relax under his hand. “I know you’re worried about your father, I really do, I just thought… If there’s trouble back home, maybe it’d be better if you went back to help them. I know the nurse that usually looks after him took the weekend off, I understand.” 

There’s a feeling inside Castiel that weighs heavy over his stomach, threatening to drop straight through him at any moment, but Dean closes the distance between them and kisses him, fierce and steady. When he pulls back, all traces of nervousness and hesitation are gone.

“Cas, it’s fine. Bobby can handle things, and I want to be here and spend the holiday with your family.” 

A muscle vibrates under his jaw with how tight it’s set, and Castiel’s eyes fall to stare at it. 

Dean’s hands are warm around him, and his lips are still tingling from their kiss. Scents of the delicious food cooking only a room away have made it even into this secluded space, and it’s hard to bring up protests when it’s clear Dean will just shut them down. He insists everything’s fine, and Castiel has no reason not to believe him. 

There’s no reason to spoil a family dinner with his stubborn questions. 

The tension in the room is thick enough that Castiel doubts even a saw could cut through it. The atmosphere between them is charged enough that a single spark could lead to an explosion that neither one of them is ready for.  It’s suffocating him. 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me right now.” Dean gestures towards the closed bedroom door, the only thing that’s—hopefully—stopping their hushed argument from reaching Sam’s and Jessica’s ears in the living room. Anger is smoldering behind his eyes, his body all tense lines, illuminated in flashes of red and green from the Christmas lights hanging over their bedroom window.

“We were waiting for you for two hours, Dean,” Castiel hisses, unable to suppress the injustice bubbling hot like lava up his throat. 

“I said I was busy.”

“You could have called. Instead we sat around a table watching the food go cold.”

“That’s what a microwave is for.” Dean throws his hands in the air, rakes shaky fingers through his hair as he paces the room. “I can’t believe we’re arguing about this while my brother is visiting for Christmas.”

“We wouldn’t be arguing about it if you’d come home at the time we agreed on,” Castiel points out, cocking his head to the side.

“Something came up, okay?” Dean says. He gestures first at himself then at Castiel, his movements exaggerated by his irritation. “I  _ never _ make a scene when  _ you _ ’re late. How many times have your meetings with your editor lasted longer than you expected?”

“The difference is that I pick up my damn phone.” Castiel takes a deep breath and feels his nostrils flare. Keeping his tone low is an exercise in self-restraint, and unless Dean sees reason quickly, he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep it up. “I call you or text you, and if you call I answer. You disappeared on us without warning. For all we knew, you could have been in a hospital fighting for your life while we were waiting for you.”

The words find their target, and Dean visibly recoils. “Fuck,” he says. He paces the room, his hands in his hair now tugging. “Fuck. You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion bleeding from his drooping shoulders. All the fight’s gone out of him, and it’s hard for Castiel to keep the argument going.

“I’m not mad because you were late, Dean,” he tries to explain, keeping his voice steady. “I just wish you’d have called me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be worried,” Dean says. He moves as if to cross the room, but he regrets it after half a step. He wraps his arms around himself instead. “Something came up with Dad, and I just lost track of time.”

“Is John okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. Just had to get one of his prescriptions refilled and it took longer than expected. I’m...I’m really sorry, okay? It won’t happen again.” 

There are tears welling up in his eyes now, and that’s the last thing that Castiel wanted when he asked Dean to talk alone. 

Castiel closes the distance between them, pulling Dean in for a hug. He’s not angry anymore, and with his mind cleared now, he realizes that he never really was. “I’m only upset because if anything had happened to you, I had no way of finding out. There’s no reason to fight. I’m sorry if I made you upset.”

“No, you’re right. Sammy will probably tell me the same thing at some point.” Dean sighs, melting into Castiel's hands, and he presses his forehead under his jaw. “I promise I’ll do better.”

“And I promise I’ll keep my cool next time and talk to you instead of starting a fight.” He presses his nose into Dean’s hair, inhaling the familiar scent of his citrus shampoo. Yeah, he thinks, it’s not worth fighting over something so small. “Should we go back outside and actually feed our guests?”

“Please, I’m so hungry, too,” Dean says, pulling back and pouting. “I’d kill for a plate of lasagna right about now.”

“Good thing we have a microwave to heat it up in a couple of minutes, right?” Castiel jokes, and he easily leans his head to return Dean’s kiss when he presses closer. 

They are about to leave the room, hand in hand, when Dean’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

Castiel turns towards him, an eyebrow raised. “Everything okay?”

Dean checks his phone, before quickly shoving it back in his pocket. “It’s nothing,” he says and hurries to pull Castiel along towards the kitchen. “Probably some asshole advertising shit.”

Something doesn’t sit right in Castiel’s gut, but he doesn’t want to start another fight, so he lets it go.

The last light of the day filters through the curtains, giving the room a soft, orange glow that suits mid-summer more than it does early spring. Last March he asked Dean to move in with him, and it’s been a year of ups and downs, but most of all, it’s been a year that has solidified in his mind that yes, he was right, this is it for him. Dean is what he wants in his life.  They haven’t had the time to talk about the future yet, other than a few jokes here and there, but Castiel guesses that couldn’t be helped with everything that happened. Between working on his book and Dean dealing with his father’s accident, there wasn’t time to plan anything beyond the next day. Things, however, are finally looking up.

John is doing better, and with the help of the nurse living with him, he’s no longer a burden Dean has to consider before deciding his every action, and Castiel is in the final stages of publication. His book hits shelves in about a week, if what Billie tells him is correct, and he figured what better way to celebrate than going on a much-needed vacation?

Dean wasn’t easy to convince, but Castiel knows all his buttons by now, and so after two weeks of talking about it, they booked a cute BnB about an hour away from home. It’s going to be the perfect weekend, and Castiel can’t wait for Dean to come home so they can finally get out of here. Their bags are already packed and waiting by the door.

The only thing missing is Dean himself.

Castiel checks his watch, only to realize, to his shock, that time flew by while he finished the preparations. Dean should have been home hours ago. There are no missed calls or texts when he checks his phone. 

Thankfully, before he can panic, he hears the tell-tale sound of keys in the lock of the front door.  Crisis averted. 

Exhaling in relief, Castiel rushes to the front door to meet him. 

“You’re late,” he accuses playfully, and he reaches on the tip of his toes to kiss him welcome; Dean barely kisses back, but Castiel’s too distracted to notice. “I have everything packed, and I phoned the BnB and confirmed that we’ll be arriving tonight. Do you want to rest for a bit or should we head out?”

Dean looks up startled for a second, long enough that Castiel wonders if maybe he’d forgotten about their trip. Then he nods. “No, I’m fine. Let’s just get the bags into the car and go.”

Buzzing with excitement, Castiel has everything in the trunk long before Dean has made it down to the car. He’s looked forward to this trip for so long, and it’s finally here. They’ll get to rest and forget all about their problems and everyday-life distractions. For the first time in a while, it can be just the two of them, enjoying each other.  They can go out for dinner, or they can have a quiet walk outside. Just staying in and having wine would be ideal, to be honest. There are so many things to choose from. 

“Hey, do you mind if we stop here for a while?”

Dean’s voice slices right through his daydreams, jolting him back to reality. They’re barely ten minutes away from home and passing a dog park that usually closes by eight. It’s closer to nine now, so really, there’s no reason for them to be here—even if they owned a dog—but if Dean wants to hang out for a while before they head to the BnB, then so be it. Castiel doesn’t much mind how their weekend away starts. 

The park has a large enclosed area, but right next to it is a canteen offering coffee and baked goods, with fairy lights hanging from the surrounding trees to create the illusion of a plaza for the iron tables and chairs in front of it. It’s cute, but it’s closed. 

Dean takes a seat there nonetheless, hands pushed in his pockets, feet tapping on the floor; Castiel follows his lead. 

It’s nice and quiet, Castiel will give Dean that, but a little boring. He’s not sure what they’re doing there, except waiting for something. What it is, he has no idea. 

Then Dean reaches over the table, palm up, and waits. 

Castiel chuckles and reaches to take his hand. It’s cold and clammy, and he brings his other palm over it, trying to rub some heat into Dean.

It doesn’t work. 

“Are you okay?”

“Listen, Cas, we need to talk.”

There’s a beat. Castiel’s heart picks up, but he breathes deliberately through his nose. He’ll let Dean say what he has to say. There’s no reason to get ahead of himself and panic for no reason.

Dean worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He can’t meet Castiel’s gaze. “It’s just, there’s some stuff…” he trails off, searching for words. “I’m not sure what I want from my life right now, and I need some, some time.”

“Time,” Castiel repeats, a feeling, heavy like a rock, settling over his chest. He’s not sure where Dean is going with this. The doubts creep inside his brain first, but worry is not far behind.

“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. Time stretches between the increasing speed of his bouncing knee and the sound of cars driving by every now and then. He clearly doesn’t know how to continue his sentence. 

“You have a whole weekend ahead of you,” Castiel says at the end, squeezing his hand. This is not what he thinks it is. This is not what he thinks it is. It’s not. “You’ll get some much-needed rest, and by the time we return home you’ll feel better. We both will.” 

Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, his voice comes out hoarse. “That’s the thing. This weekend… I’m sorry.”

The weight in Castiel’s chest presses down, squeezing the breath out of him. He doesn’t believe it, not yet. “We can cancel if you want. We can go back home and spend two days in bed with pizza, if you’d rather do that.” He’ll be disappointed, he won’t lie, but if it’ll make the miserable look on Dean’s face go away, and settle all the fears inside Castiel’s chest, he’s willing to make the sacrifice.

“I can’t do this,” Dean says, and he pulls away. He rakes a hand through his hair, facing the trees to his side like they hold all the answers; Castiel wishes they did, for his stomach can’t take this drawn out torture any longer. “I’m sorry. But I just—this is not going to work. I’m sorry, Cas.”

The pressure crashes him, pushes against his bones threatening to break straight through, to make his chest cave in. Castiel is still sitting with his hand in the middle of the table, palm closed around empty air. His nostrils flare when he inhales.

At last, Dean shifts in his seat, turning his pained gaze on Castiel. “Say something.”

“Like what?” The words barely make it past the lump in his throat.

“What you think about this? Anything.”

Castiel thinks he’s getting a headache with how tightly he’s squeezing his jaw shut. There are a million thoughts flying around his brain, none cohesive enough to put into words. The only thing that stands out is  _ this is not happening. _

Dean isn’t… He can’t be…

“If this is about us going on a trip for the weekend, we can cancel it.” It sounds dumb repeating the same line, but it’s all Castiel has to offer. It’s the last ragged shred of hope that he hangs onto to keep his composure.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s not about the weekend, Cas, okay? It’s not… you didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

Is Dean seriously giving him the  _ it’s not you, it’s me  _ speech? Have they reached that low a point in their relationship? If there’s any relationship left to speak of. It’s kind of hard to tell, with the way Dean keeps mumbling and Castiel’s ears keep ringing. 

“Are you breaking up with me?” Castiel has to be sure. He has to be absolutely sure, because his pulse is thrumming like crazy inside his temples and he’s scared a vein might explode. 

Dean looks like a deer caught in headlights. He brings his arms up in a soothing gesture; Castiel doesn’t fail to notice that they are shaking, though it’s a distant observation, like he’s watching everything through stained glass.

_ This is not happening. _

“I promise you, this is for the best.” Dean’s voice is also distant. Like a broken telephone, where the words barely reach the other side.  It doesn’t make them any less painful.

Castiel’s whole body has gone numb and cold, save for the rapid heartbeat that kicks sharply against his ribs. He’s glad for the chair holding him up. When he drops his eyes, he notices that his hand on the table has curled into a fist without him noticing. 

He can’t do this.

He springs up, dizzy and nauseous, and it’s only then he realizes that the reason his chest is burning is because he’s forgotten to breathe.

This is not happening. It’s not _.  _ Dean’s not breaking up with him. He’s not. They’re happy together. They’re in love. There’s nothing wrong with them. There’s, there’s— 

He sways slightly on his feet, forcing himself to take a breath, the chilly night air filling his lungs but doing little to stop his heart from hurting. 

There are hands on him. “Cas, are you okay?” 

He’s not, he’s really not, and Dean touching him is not helping. 

“Talk to me. Please talk to me.”

“Tell me you’re joking,” Cas manages to choke out. “Tell me that this is a bad joke, and we’ll never talk about it again.”

Dean stares back at him, grief written all over his face.

“Please,” he begs, but all that he’s met with is silence and a hand that presses comforting circles on his lower back. Something inside Castiel bends and twists. When it snaps, it’s unstoppable and ruthless. 

It hurts.

“Why?” he asks, and he can taste something salty on his tongue. He’s crying. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t stop himself. His body is out of his control now. “Why are you doing this? Why now?”

Dean’s mouth twists painfully. There are tears in his eyes, and when he speaks his voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” Castiel repeats, screams at him. He’s raw and exposed, and all Dean can do is shake his head and cry.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

He keeps repeating that, and Castiel can’t stop the tears running down his cheeks. He’s shaking. His chest caves in and the whole world caves in along with it. It’s broken, and nothing can ever fix it again.  Certainly not Dean’s poor excuse for an apology. Not his useless tears, either.

“Let me go.” He jerks away, putting a good two feet between them, but it doesn’t stop the world from collapsing around him. The trees are spinning, and Dean is still not telling him how the fuck they got to this point without Castiel realizing it.

Dean takes a step forward, opens his arms like he’s waiting for Castiel to run into them. Like that can make this okay. Like it can ever happen again. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry, baby.”

“Don’t call me that.” Castiel’s voice cracks. “Don’t touch me, just don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeats like a broken record. “I’m so sorry.”

This is not happening. It’s not.

Except it is.

The tears burn on their way down his face. The bile in the back of his throat chokes him. He has to get out of here.

“Tell me what to do,” Dean pleads, voice shaky. “Please, Cas, tell me what you need.”

What he needs? What  _ does _ Castiel need? He needs to get back into the car, go to the trip he planned and pretend everything's okay. But he can’t. He can’t, and the realization is a sharp knife between his ribs. It doesn’t matter what he chooses to do now. Dean has already made his decision, and they can’t come back from it.

So. What does Castiel need?

Between his shallow breaths, he finds something to say. “Take me home.”

“Of course. Anything you want. Just promise me you’ll be okay.” He reaches for Castiel again.

“Don’t.” It’s too much. “Just don’t. All I want is to go back home.”

“Alright,” Dean agrees. He sniffles. “Alright. Let’s get back in the car, and I’ll take you.”

It’s both the shortest and longest ten minutes of Castiel’s life. For the first time ever, the silence in the car is awkward. If the atmosphere is charged with anything, it’s with his despair and Dean’s silent solemnity, which only serves to hit all of Castiel’s wrong buttons.

_ Why,  _ he wants to ask him, he wants to scream until his throat bleeds. He knows Dean won’t answer, so he just rests his forehead against the window and stares at nothing. His apartment is around the corner. He’ll crawl in his bed and cry, and he’ll pretend that it’s not  _ his  _ apartment or  _ his  _ bed, but  _ theirs _ . 

If only that dream wasn’t shuttered the moment Dean rolls into a stop in front of the building. 

He doesn’t kill the engine. 

“Do you...Do you want me to help you carry the bags up?”

Where is Dean going to stay tonight? Castiel wants to ask, but all of a sudden, he’s scared of the answer. There’s a hollowness inside him that echoes Dean’s words, and he realizes he hasn’t answered yet.

“No, I can do it myself.”

He gets out on auto-pilot, grabs all the bags he can carry from the trunk and climbs the stairs up to his apartment without looking back once. There are Dean’s things mixed in his bag, there are his toiletries in the duffel he left behind, but he doesn’t have the energy to think about that. The house is filled with Dean’s stuff, anyway. From the stupid succulents on the window sill to the random selection of Dean’s favorite books on the shelves.

A breath catches in Castiel’s throat. He sags against the closed door and slides down. 

Dean’s boots are still by the door. A picture of the two of them mocks him from the coffee table.

Castiel drops his head, wraps his arms around his knees and tries to breathe.


	11. Chapter 11

_ October 2019 _ _  
_ _ Three Days Missing _

The car was left by the side of the road, and by the time Dean and Castiel arrive at the scene—it’s not a crime scene, not yet, Dean reminds himself—a couple of officers are already there with Sheriff Mills.

“Someone called us about an abandoned car,” Mills tells them, her men already digging through the car for any clues as to Sam’s whereabouts. “It  _ is _ Sam’s car, isn’t it? The plates match.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Dean says, despite his dry and constricting throat.

The car looks perfect. If he ignores their surroundings, it looks just like every other time Dean has seen it, like maybe Sam parked it across the street and went on an errand on foot. Something inside him unfurls, some deep worry that Sam had an accident and died in a ditch or a cliff somewhere. Of course, they haven’t found Sam yet, but at least Dean can cross one thing off the list of  _ Horrible Ways Sam Could Have Died. _

He can’t exactly ask for much more, these days.

“Did you find anything in it?” Cas asks, peering past the sheriff at the car, doors wide open.

She shakes her head, hands on her hips. “We found his briefcase in there, but nothing else. His phone and wallet are still missing, as are the personal notes I know he kept on Ava Wilson’s case.”

“Notes? That’s the first I'm hearing about notes,” Dean says, almost growls, despite doing his best to keep his composure. 

“Well, yeah, Sam was keeping pretty extensive notes on the case and the people he was talking to. He had a notebook he took with him everywhere he went,” Mills says. “He showed me a few of the things he’d written there, once.”

“A girl goes missing, a lawyer shows up to investigate, and a few days later he goes missing, too,” Cas summarizes, squinting against the sun. “As do all his notes on the case. I think we have a pretty clear image here.” 

“I’m not going to lie, things do look pretty bad,” Mills tells them. “But the car looks fine, and there’s no sign of struggle either in his room or in his car. The bus station is only a ten-minute walk from here, maybe Sam skipped town, but—” she raises a finger to stop Dean from interrupting her. “I don’t have any other choice but to look into the possibility of foul play. There are just too many coincidences piling up for my liking.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean hisses under his breath. 

Next to him, Cas goes stiff but doesn’t comment.

“I’m sorry to be saying this, but both of you will need to come by the police station to give your statements,” Mills says, taking out her phone and sending a quick text. “And I’m also going to have to ask you to step back from the investigation. I can’t let civilians go around messing up potential crime scenes.”

“What? But we’re not civilians,” Dean tries to reason with her, but Mill’s brow is set with determination, and Cas has a gentle hand on his elbow pulling him back.

“Of course. We’ll do anything we can to assist you,” Cas says, giving the sheriff a small smile. It’s one of those timid ones that Cas is so good at faking. They are very convincing. Dean himself had trouble seeing through them when he first met Cas, but it’s been a long time since then, and he can easily tell them apart from the real thing now. 

“Right, thank you. Someone will be waiting for you at the station, then,” she says, nodding as a way of sending them away. 

“Come on, let’s go,” Cas says, using his grip on Dean’s elbow to guide him back to the Impala.

“We’re just going to give up?”

“We’re not giving up, we’re cooperating. We have to play nice with the cops, and you have to admit that you’re not in the best headspace right now, Dean. What if you’ve overlooked something Sam told you? Or forgotten about it? Maybe talking to the police will help you remember.”

Dean can feel a muscle pulsing under his jaw, his pulse threatening to rise to dangerous levels. “I know how to do my job. And there’s nothing I’ve forgotten,” he insists.

Cas doesn’t look convinced, though. He eyes Dean with a level of concentration that always made Dean crumble in the end, back in the day. Castiel can tell a lie from a mile away.

So, Dean got better at lying. 

“I trust you, Dean,” Cas says finally, if a bit hesitant. “But if we want to go on snooping behind Mills’ back, we have to be on her good side first.”

He’s right, of course, he is. Exhausted, and having barely gotten any sleep last night, Dean rubs at his eyes.

“Right. You’re right, sorry. Let’s just get this over with so we can go back to doing something useful.”

They’re back in the car and already driving when Dean manages to gather enough courage for what he’s been trying to say since yesterday.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Mm?”

Cas has all his attention focused on his phone, doing God knows what, but Dean is sure it’s something far more useful than his own brooding and emotional turmoil.

“I just, uh, I wanted to say thank you. For coming all the way out here and helping me,” Dean’s been addressing the steering wheel in his hands, but now he turns to face Cas and finds him looking back, a storm of feelings crossing over his face, too fast for Dean to read them. “I couldn’t have—No, I  _ can’t _ do this without you. You’re right, we make a pretty good team. I know it’s hard for you to be here. So. I just wanted to say thank you.”

Something strangled and choked rises up Cas’ throat, a sound Dean has never heard before and so has no point of reference to decipher. But he’s not dense enough not to see Cas’ walls rise up again all around him, his tense posture and strained expression. 

“I had to help Sam,” is all Cas says, though Dean is sure there is something else at the end of that sentence. Another one of Cas’ half-truths. He’s not sure what it is, but it hangs heavy between them all the way to the police station.

“How did it go?”

Dean shakes his head, feeling the beginnings of irritation crawling under his skin. Questioning took for- _ fucking _ -ever, and they hadn’t even asked him anything new. He told them exactly the same things he’d told both Mills and Cas, knowing fully well this was a waste of time. 

Finding Cas already waiting for him proves that it was only a waste of  _ his _ time. 

Logically, he knows that Cas didn’t talk to Sam before he went missing and he doesn’t have anything to tell the police, but it still pisses Dean off that he was kept in there for a good two hours, going around in circles about his last phone call with Sam, and Jessica, and everything. Whatever Mills had promised to do for the case, this felt like a step back.

He scowls at Cas. “Charmed their pants off, how did you think it was going to go?”

Swallowing, Cas shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, I wasn’t sure. But, um, anything new?”

“Nope,” Dean replies, putting deliberate emphasis on the _p_. “Let’s get out of here before one of them comes back to ask me more stupid questions.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking that maybe we should start being a little more aggressive in our search,” Cas says, catching up to him as they walk towards the Impala.

“Aggressive?”

“Mills is not going to be very happy to share details with us from now on, so we have to check everything ourselves. It seems logical that ruling out the possibility of Sam running away, once and for all, should be our first step.”

“Sam didn’t run away,” Dean hisses, spinning around sharply and coming right into Cas’ personal space, face to face, chest to chest. His hands curl into fists in his sides. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Cas’ eyes widen, mouth falling slightly open, and it’s like a bucket of ice has fallen over Dean. 

Shit, what is he thinking? Not only yelling at the only person who is on his side, but it’s Cas. He deserves for Cas to just pack his stuff and leave. It’s not like Sammy is his problem, and Dean shouldn’t have even asked Cas to come and help him deal with this shit.  He steps back, muscles shaking, and he drops his eyes to the road, too ashamed to face Cas. He has an apology hanging from the tip of his tongue, but like so many times before, it gets stuck just behind his lips.

“I believe you,” Cas says. “It doesn’t look like Sam has run away, but Dean, we have to look at every angle. His car was found right next to the bus station.”

“What do we do?”

“I’ll go ask at the station, see if anyone saw Sam in the last few days. You can check if there was any movement in his bank account since Saturday. Do you still have any contacts in the department that might be able to help you?”

“Yeah, there’s someone that can help me,” Dean says. “Um, should we both go back to the motel first?”

“I have to take my car,” Cas points out.

Alright then. No matter how much Dean doesn’t like this, it sounds like a plan.

They stop to grab lunch, too, on their way back, and then they go their separate ways to tackle two possible leads at the same time. Dean calls Ash the moment Cas is out the door, and the guy is more than happy to help Dean out.  It’s good, hearing an old friend’s voice, more so when that somebody was part of the team working the case Dean blew because he was drunk out of his mind. That’s Ash, never holding hard feelings. The fact that what Dean asks of him is kind of illegal might also have helped tickle his interest. 

A couple of hours later, Dean is looking at an email of all the transactions made with Sam’s cards in the last few days. The last one is at the diner, maybe half an hour after he and Sam hang up. Not a big revelation, since Ruby already confirmed that Sam did go to the diner that night, but every detail counts at this point. Maybe it’ll help them find something else out, down the line. A nd, more importantly, it confirms once and for all that Sam hasn’t used his account at all since that night. Unless he had enough cash to buy a bus ticket and food to last him for a long time, there’s no way his brother has skipped town.

Cas’ dejected look when he returns is enough to know that his own investigation didn’t go any better.

“Nothing?” Dean asks anyway.

“Nothing,” Cas confirms, shedding his coat and dropping heavily on his bed. “You?”

Dean passes over the laptop for Cas to see the email for himself and dutifully waits.

Cas slaps the laptop shut with a sigh and leaves it on the bed next to him. “At least we know for sure that we’ve been looking in the right direction the whole time.”

“No offense Cas, but the fact that a serial killer might have killed my brother is not exactly comforting.”

“We don’t know if we’re looking for a serial killer,” Cas points out, a hand at his brow like he’s fighting against a headache. 

He’s been acting weird since this morning. It feels like whatever rocky balance they’d found between them is lost again, pulled away like a rug from under Dean’s feet. Or maybe like water pulling back before a tsunami. The question is, when will it hit, and how many victims will it count this time?

“Cas, we’re looking for someone that hated Ava Wilson enough to kill her. Might have been her boyfriend, might have been one of the other foster kids Eve Maxwell keeps around, or it might have been Eve Maxwell herself. If they got to Sammy, too, that makes them a serial killer.”

“That’s not the definition. You were a police officer, you should know this better than I.”

Silence follows Cas’ words, both sitting there lost to their own thoughts. Their choices for their course of action are quite limited, from where Dean stands. They don’t have any resources or allies except for each other, and they’ve already talked to everyone Sam might have seen that night. 

What Jody told them about Sam’s notes going missing makes it pretty clear that Sam and Ava are connected somehow. So, it makes sense that if they manage to find Ava, they’ll find Sam, too. And Dean knows—he feels it in his bones—that the key to finding Ava is in those notes Sam was keeping. There’s no other reason for someone to have gone after him, otherwise. Except Sam’s notes are missing, too, and it’s not like he can go around breaking into people’s houses to search for them. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Cas starts, rubbing his palms together, a nervous tick he’s never managed to hide from Dean. “Why are you lying to me?”

Dean’s stomach drops through the floor, but he remains perfectly still. “I’m not lying to you.”

“But you’re hiding something from me. Something about Sam. Yesterday at the bar, you said you were sure Sam would go for a drink  _ that _ night. Saturday specifically. Why would you say that?”

Dean steels himself, even as he can feel the whole world crumbling underneath him. 

Here’s the tsunami coming, then.

“I didn’t mean anything—”

“Stop lying to me, Dean. It’s me, okay? It’s just you and me here and nobody else. Whatever it is you can’t tell Mills or the others, you can tell me,” Cas pleads with him. 

The look in his eyes is too much, too close to how Cas would look at Dean once upon a time, and it sends a wave of nervousness through Dean so strong it practically vibrates under his skin.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks in a low voice, feeling the wave rising through him, ready to spill out, and being unable to stop it. 

“I want the truth, Dean. Why have you been moping around since I got here, acting like everything is your fault? Acting like you’re the reason Sam went missing to begin with.”

“Because maybe I am,” Dean snaps, and it’s too late to take it back. It’s out there now, so there’s not much point in continuing this charade. “Sam and I, we had a fight that night, okay? When we were talking on the phone, I said some things that I didn’t mean to say, and he said some things, too, and it got a bit much. If someone managed to sneak up on Sammy and hurt him, that’s because he was too upset from everything I told him to pay attention. If Sammy ends up dead in a ditch, that’s on me.”

Cas shakes his head, a shaky exhalation escaping him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I was going to judge you for fighting with your brother?  _ Me, _ of all people?”

“Shit, I don’t know, Cas. Everyone kept asking if Sam was in a weird headspace and saying that maybe he ran away, so I figured no one needed to know we had a fight right before he disappeared. They didn’t believe me when I told them he was fine, why would they believe me if I told them he wasn’t?”

“I would have,” Cas tells him, and something in his voice breaks, mirroring the way Dean’s control breaks, finally releasing the tidal wave fighting inside him.

“‘ _ But he’s done this before, hasn’t he? _ ’ is what you said when I came to ask for help.  _ Your  _ words. Even when you, of all people, should have known better.”

“Dean, I didn’t mean that.”

“It didn’t seem like it took you that long to think it, so, you know what? I think you meant it.”

Standing here and having Cas point an accusatory finger at him when Dean was right, all along, stings like acid poured down his throat. Every single time Dean hid something from Castiel, he had a pretty good reason, and he’s just been proven right for doing so.  It doesn’t feel like a victory, though.

“I was hurt,” Cas says, voice rising. “I was upset. You broke up with me two years ago without so much as an explanation, and then you show up like a dog with his tail between his legs, asking for my help. I’m sorry I said that, I shouldn’t have, but it’s not like it was easy for me to see you again after all this time.”

Dean scoffs, throat tightening. “Easy?” he repeats. “You think it’s  _ easy _ for me? My brother is missing, and you being here only makes it more difficult.”

“You asked me for help, Dean. You are the one who asked me to come here.”

“And why did you?” Dean shoots right back. “Why did you come all the way out here?”

Cas shakes his head, looking lost. “I don’t know. I thought I was doing this for Sam, but honestly, I don’t know anymore. I spent the last couple years of my life resenting you, hating you, and yet here I am. After everything you did to me, I’m here, still hoping for an explanation.” He raises his finger to stop Dean’s protests before they make it out of his mouth. “And don’t tell me it was about John. That’s not an excuse. I would have been there for you, you know that.”

And that’s just the final straw. The final drop that makes everything overflow and come rushing out. “You don’t know anything about John,” Dean yells. “You think you know because you saw him at the hospital once, but you don’t. Did you know he called me five hundred times a day yelling at me, asking me why his son wasn’t taking care of him? Did you know we went through five nurses in three months because he kept threatening to hurt them if they didn’t call me over? Did you know he locked one of them inside the bathroom, so he could run away from the house and come find me? Did you know a car almost ran him over before someone finally found him and called an ambulance to take him to the hospital?”

The wave hits them with the force of a nuclear blast. Everything Dean kept to himself, everything he’d buried deep inside him and tried to just go on—it all crashes over them, felling them down. And still, it keeps going, swallowing everything in its path.

“Of course, you didn’t,” he snarls. “Dad was a sick, broken man, who, when not drooling, was yelling and cursing and making everyone’s life a living nightmare, his included. So don’t you dare tell me you know anything about Dad, or what he went through. What  _ I  _ went through. Because you have no idea.”

His pulse pounds in his ears, leaving him breathless and yet itching with restrained energy. He needs something to do, something to keep his hands busy and stop the ringing inside his head.

Cas looks at him with his mouth open, a horrified expression on his face. Something clicks behind his eyes, like a missing piece snapping into place. “But Dean, you didn’t tell me any of that. How could I have known?”

There’s still a hint of accusation in his tone. Like somehow, again, this is Dean’s fault. It’s Dean’s fault that he protected Cas from the worst of his father’s accident. 

He grabs his jacket and stands up. 

“I need a drink,” he says without putting much thought to it.

“Dean. Dean, wait.”

Dean doesn’t wait. He stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the frame. He’s already in the car when Cas comes out of the room, and he drives away without waiting to hear what he has to say.

Getting a bottle of whiskey is not the difficult part. 

The difficult part is what to do with it. 

His sobriety coin is burning a hole in his pocket. He tried driving around first, but it didn’t do the trick, the Impala too cramped to contain all the misery he’s accumulated in the last two years. Going back to the room is out of the question while Cas is there. The thought that maybe he’s gathered his stuff and left by now passes through Dean’s mind, but when he drives back to the motel, Cas’ car is still parked there.

He goes to Sam’s room. Bill, or whatever his name is, didn’t give him a key, but Dean can’t be bothered to play by the rules anymore. He drops to his knees and quickly works the lock open, then he steps into the room. It looks exactly like the last time he was here, with Mills and Cas. 

Placing the bottle on the desk, Dean sits at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head low. 

He stares at the bottle.

It stares back at him. 

The air vibrates around them.

Is it worth throwing away fifteen months of AA meetings and therapy just to drink? Old Dean would say yes, absolutely. To be perfectly honest, with all the shit going down, he’s surprised he held out this long. Worrying about Sam and telling Cas everything are his two worst nightmares combined. So really, just a taste might help him relax.  That’s all he wants. To relax. To be able to get some sleep, and, and maybe finally manage to clear his head so he can actually think. Maybe he can forget about everything and everyone and just drown in sweet, blissful oblivion. 

But will he do it?

His foot taps nervously on the floor, the sound deafening in the silence of the room. He’s staring at the bottle so hard his eyes start to sting. He blinks, letting his gaze slide away from the bottle. 

He stills.

There’s something…

Does the desk look a little off? Like maybe only one of its corners is pushed against the wall? He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, but it does, so he pushes off the bed and uses his hip to push the desk back against the wall.

It rattles, hitting on something and falls back into the same place. 

Dean walks around the desk, frowning, to see what the problem is. It’s a pretty tight space and impossibly dark, but he thinks he can make out something jammed between the wall and the desk.  It’s a notebook, he realizes after he pulls the desk away to retrieve it. Heart rate picking up, he fingers the broken spine. Could this be Sam’s notes? He opens it to check, and his mouth drops open.

It’s not Sam’s notes.

But it just might be better.


	12. Chapter 12

_June 2016_

This is his fault. All his fault. 

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He did this. John is dying alone in some sterile hospital room, and it’s all because Dean was too fragile to handle his father. He was the reason they fought. He was the one to shut John out. No doubt he was also the reason John was drinking. 

Dean repeats that like a mantra in his head during the whole frantic drive to Lawrence. He slams his foot on the accelerator, refuses any kind of stop that Sam and Cas don’t insist on and he makes it to the hospital in record time. From there on, it’s a series of doctors talking about charts, and numbers, and _brain injury,_ and fuck fuck fuck.

 _Isn’t there anyone in this godforsaken building who talks like a normal person_? he wants to scream. If he knew what all those fancy electro-fucking-something words meant he’d be a doctor himself, not a police detective. 

Thank God, Sammy is there to play mediator. He actually seems to understand what the doctor is telling them, and he makes sure to murmur what Dean guesses is a very watered-down version to him while they’re being led to their father. 

Dean still doesn’t understand. 

They are not allowed inside the room. A nurse pulls a curtain back from a window, so they can look from behind a glass at John, bloody and bruised, his body swollen and broken, and Dean is sick. The white room fades out, the faint beeping of the machines fades out, too, and all that’s left is his father, tucked in a bed with tubes and needles and gauze covering every inch of his body, hanging onto life by a single thread. 

He takes a hollow breath, his lung burning from the bleach scent that has permanently latched itself onto everything around him, and he feels bile rising up his throat. He can’t look anymore, but he refuses to turn away. He looks until the image of his father is burned behind his eyelids, and then he looks on some more.

He did this.

“...Dean?”

Sam’s voice somehow reaches him over the ringing in his ears.

Dean turns to look at him and the movement makes him dizzy. His whole body is tingling, that weird sensation between numbness and pain that sits heavily over his chest and threatens to crush him. 

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam asks, raising an eyebrow; from his tone, Dean realizes it’s not the first time he’s asked.

He opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

This is all his fault. Cold slowly settles over him, and he shivers. 

“Look, the doctors still have a few things to tell us, but you don’t have to be here,” Sam says, his palm huge and awkward on Dean’s shoulder.

“No. No, I want to be here,” Dean manages to mumble. 

“You look like you’re going to pass out at any moment,” Sam tells him flatly, and his face pulls together in that unhappy expression that means he won’t accept a no for an answer. “Just go and wait in the cafeteria with Cas. There’s nothing else for you to do here, anyway.”

 _You’ve done enough already,_ is what he doesn’t say, but Dean’s brain supplies it all the same. 

_I did this. It’s my fault he’s dying._

His throat feels too thick for words. He nods and goes to find Cas.

The doctors call it a miracle.

Dean knows better than that. John is not a religious person. 

What he certainly is, is a stubborn mule who no doubt clung to life on sheer willpower long enough to get somewhat better, then out of the danger zone, and finally well enough to wake up. It took him fourteen days.

Relief washes through Dean, all the same, when Sam calls to tell them to come to the hospital. It turns sour the moment Sam shows him what John has managed to scrawl on a crumpled paper.

It’s a single word: _Dean?_

The whole world collapses around him, and if it weren’t for Cas holding onto his hand, squeezing to keep him steady, Dean’s not sure he’d have stayed upright. As it is, he draws strength from his boyfriend’s calming presence and rolls his shoulders back. He can do this. He’s going to be the strong one, for both John and Sammy. 

“What did the doctors say?” Dean asks.

Sam tells them a lot of stuff, something about eyesight, and memory loss and other things, and Dean doesn’t hear any of that.

There’s only one question in his mind. “But he is not going to die.”

Sam looks somewhat lost. “No. No, they think that he’s out of danger for now.”

Dean takes a moment to let that sink in. John will live. He didn’t kill him. Okay then. Okay. Dean can work with this. He slips his hand out of Cas’ hold, already feeling the loss, and stands up. He can’t let himself be coddled right now. The hard part has only started. 

“Okay. Okay then. We’ll just have to take this one day at a time.”

“Dean!” 

Sam’s voice stops him, but it’s Cas’ big, blue eyes that pin Dean to the spot. He looks at him like he’s about to break, and Dean’s not a fragile, glass doll to be looked after. He is John’s son, and he is going to take care of everything. 

“Dean, you do realize that he’ll need care all the time, right? Even if he ever gets out of the hospital, he can’t live on his own.” Sam cocks his head to the side as if to say, _have you thought this through?_

And fuck if he hasn’t. It’s the only thing he’s been able to think about in the last two weeks. Whether he was working, eating, or resting, all he could think about was this moment. The only reprieve he got was when he was with Cas, and even that was short-lived. It would have been selfish to demand Cas’ attention when he was working hard on his book, and anyway, this was never his fault.

It was Dean’s.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be alone,” Dean says, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest; no one can say he’s not John’s son. “He has his sons, doesn’t he?”

There’s a beat, where both Sam and Cas stare at him with unreadable expressions on their faces. Dean stares right back, as if daring them to contradict him. 

“Dean, I can’t stay here forever. At some point I have to go back to Cali. I have school to finish, I have…” 

Sam has a whole other life in California. Yeah, yeah, Dean knows that. Nobody asked Sam to stick around, anyway.

“Well, then he still has me,” Dean says. He’s going to take care of John on his own. It’s the least he can do. “Let’s just cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?”

He walks away without waiting for an answer. 

The months drag on. July crawls so slowly towards August, Dean’ sure even a snail would have reached the finish line by now. Life has its ups and downs. John has difficulty coordinating his movements, so holding a spoon on his own is out of the question, as is the fine control needed to press the correct button on the TV remote. As he still has the tubes in, only one of the two is a problem. 

John still acts as if it’s the end of the world, though.

The doctors have explained to him, time and time again, that just because his father woke up from his coma doesn’t mean he’ll make a full recovery. They show him the endless list of medications John is on, and they try to teach him all about seizures, and talking to a patient who has reverted essentially back to the mindset of a child, and Dean tries—God help him, he tries—but it still feels like a failure every time his father discovers a new, imaginative way to show his displeasure.

More often than not, it comes after John tries to do something that used to be routine for him and finds out he can’t—getting out of bed on his own is one example, using the toilet without help is another. Sometimes, it’s because he doesn’t like the nurse attending to him. Other times, it’s because Cas is mentioned. 

Navigating John’s mood is a skill that Dean is painstakingly trying to learn all over again. He can’t say he’s had much success.

They seem to have reached a begrudging compromise on physiotherapy, more than likely because John abhors the wheelchair, so Dean takes him to the pool twice a week, where the physical therapist guides John’s trembling and shaking body through small movements that are supposed to help him, but in reality, Dean thinks are just a form of torture. John certainly grunts and groans like they are. 

On things like glasses, there’s no middle ground. John throws them the moment he sees them and smashes them against the wall. 

“We’ll leave that fight for another day,” the doctors promise him, and Dean has no other choice but to believe them. He doesn’t have the mental strength to do anything else right now, anyway. 

He can barely keep his eyes open while he drives back home, and he swears to God he’s lucky he makes it back without getting into an accident. He drags his steps up the stairs, feeling his shoulders heavy, and his head ready to burst. 

Cas is already home. He turns to look at Dean from where he’s sitting at his desk, hair a mess like he’s been running his fingers through it—Dean could bet he has, he does that a lot when writing doesn’t go well—and a grin splits his face in half. 

“Finally, you’re home. I was getting worried.” Then he takes in Dean’s appearance, and a small frown appears between his brows. “Are you okay? You look tired.”

“I’m just hungry,” Dean replies, running a hand through his hair. “Let me get some food in me and take a shower, and I’ll be good as new.”

Cas narrows his eyes at him, as if he’s not entirely convinced Dean is telling the truth. “You know, we don’t _have_ to go to the movies with Gabriel tonight. We can always cancel it.” 

“What?” Well, shit. Dean completely forgot about that. But it’s fine, it’s fine. He can still make it. “No, come on. I promised we’d watch _The Purge_ tonight, and we’re watching _The Purge_ tonight. Gabe’s buying me popcorn, remember?”

“But what I’m saying is, we don’t have to. Gabe won’t mind,” Cas says again, and Dean waves him away. 

“Cas, it’s fine. I want to go.”

And he does. He really does.

He wants to do something fun for a change, and he wants to spend a night without being plagued by worries and nightmares. 

When he ducks into the bathroom to wash up, he takes off the role of the dedicated son like a jacket he can shrug off, and he pulls on the role of the sweet boyfriend. He rolls his shoulders back, and he forces his brain to change channels. Pinching his cheeks is the last step, to get some color back to his face. 

Cas needs this as much as Dean does, he reminds himself. He’s been so stressed, with his deadlines and all the comments his editor keeps emailing him, that he deserves a carefree night. 

And Dean’s going to give it to him. All he has to do is turn up the charm and force himself to have a good time. Easy-peasy. It doesn’t matter if he's ready to collapse from exhaustion. Doesn’t matter at all.

Dean is ready to vibrate out of his skin. Finally, _fucking finally_ , Sam is coming for a visit. 

Dean can’t wait. Not only because he hasn’t seen his brother in a couple of months— the two short day-trips Sam made in summer don’t count, because he spent more time with John than with Dean—but also because this one trip, in particular, marks a very important milestone: John is finally getting out of the hospital.

They’ve already found a live-in caregiver to stay with him, one that came highly recommended by their doctors and who promised to find a second one to cover the days of the week she won’t be working. She doesn’t have a driver’s license to take John to the pool, unfortunately, but Dean is willing to compromise and do it himself twice a week. 

This is the plan for the weekend: move John’s stuff in, get him settled and go grocery shopping, make sure Mrs. Moseley has all the papers she needs and knows his medication schedule, then try and convince John that this is a good change.

And, of course, spend some time with Sammy.

The second part of his plan goes down the drain before it even starts. 

Sam shows up with a stunning blonde hanging off his arm, who introduces herself as Jessica. At least she’s funny, Dean will give her that. 

Cas, ever the gracious and perfect boyfriend Dean doesn’t deserve, takes her under his wing so Dean has at least some alone time with Sam while they’re preparing the new apartment.

They’re emptying the couple of boxes of essential stuff they got from John’s house. Some clothes go into the closet, some books on the shelf next to the bed—they’re mostly decorative, as John’s eyesight hasn’t seen any improvement yet—and some framed photos are placed on the windowsill. 

“So,” Dean says, folding another pair of pants and putting it in the drawer. He clears his throat. “Jessica seems nice.”

Sam looks over from where he’s trying to connect a DVD player to the wall-mounted TV, and the gigantic dork actually blushes. “She is amazing. She’s funny, and kind, and she volunteers at the animal shelter in her free time.”

“Sammy, you don’t have to tell me she can do better than you, I have eyes.” Dean wiggles his eyebrows in his brother’s direction and bursts out laughing even before Sam reaches for the throw pillow from the armchair to toss at him.

“Shut up, jerk.”

Dean catches the pillow mid-air and drops it on the bed. He turns his most annoying smirk on. “You’re so easy to tease.”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard he actually throws his head to the side. A drama queen since he was born, that one. 

“Keep that attitude up and I’m never bringing her around again.”

“On, no, come on. You know I’m only teasing you,” Dean says, opening his arms in a soothing gesture. He takes a moment, during which he pretends to make sure there are no clothes left in the bag he is supposed to be unpacking, then he says, “So this is a serious thing, then? You sound pretty gone on her.”

Sam ducks his head, bites on his lower lip, but his smile is hard to hide. “I don’t know, Dean. I mean we’ve only known each other for six months or so, but I think she’s the one.”

“The one? Don’t you think it’s a little early for that?”

“You moved in with Cas much earlier than that,” Sam points out, and yeah, there’s not much Dean can say to that. He fell hard and fast, and he can’t blame Sam for doing the same. He does retain the right to be worried as an older brother, though.

“Is _she_ the reason you can’t leave California?” He tries to sound nonchalant, but his voice comes out hoarse. It shouldn’t bother him that Sam ran away when he and John had that big fight—he’d promised Sam he wasn’t mad when he reached out a couple of months after settling into Cali—and yet it still stings sometimes. More often, lately, than it used to.

Sam pauses. A beat where Dean can practically hear Sam’s brain working. 

“She is _one_ of the reasons. But you know I can’t leave school. Is… is everything alright here? I mean with Dad and everything.”

Dean pretends to be shocked at the turn their conversation just took. “What? Yeah, everything is fine. It’s great. Yeah, no, Dad is doing loads better, I mean you saw him this morning, too. He doesn’t even need the wheelchair that often, now, and he’s slowly learning to eat again. Things are awesome.”

Definitely going great, he thinks to himself. Sure, John sometimes throws a fit over minor things, like waking up and not remembering where he is or even that he was in an accident in the first place, but things are going great. Yeah. That’s what he has to tell everyone.

It doesn’t matter that he’s exhausted. This is his fault in the first place, and it’s his responsibility to deal with the consequences.

Sam doesn’t look in the least convinced. “Right. Well, at least now he’s moving here you’ll get more free time.”

The slow, steady _tap tap tap_ of John’s walker announces his presence even before he reaches the door.

Mrs. Moseley is with him and she helps him past the door, ignoring the way John stubbornly tries to shrug her off. “And this is your room, Mr. Winchester. Haven’t your boys done a lovely job? It feels like home already, doesn’t it?” 

“‘s not my home,” John mumbles, visibly putting great effort into forming the short, slurred words. “Wanna go home.”

“Dad, this is your home now,” Sam says carefully. He keeps his voice low, as if John is some kind of scared animal and might snap without notice.

“Not my home,” John grumbles, and his grip on the walker becomes white-knuckled. Dean sees his hands shaking, and he knows what’s going to come even before John opens his mouth. “Wanna go ‘ome. Dean, tell’em. Tell’em, Dean. Don’t wanna be here. ‘m fine. ‘m fine!”

“Dad, Dad, it’s okay.” Dean rushes to him, putting a calming hand on his shoulders. “This is just temporary, you know that. No need to get upset.”

“I can’t…” John trails off, and sways dangerously; Mrs. Moseley thankfully catches him just in time, leads him to the bed and helps him sit. “I don’t… I have a headache. I don’t wanna talk anymore.”

“Dad,” Dean tries, but John doesn’t let him.

“My head hurts! I said leave me alone. Get out.”

“Dean, let's just go,” Sam says, grabbing Dean from the elbow and gently pulling him away.

Mrs. Moseley nods. “I’ll help him get settled,” she promises.

Dean’s stomach constricts so violently he’s not sure how he doesn’t throw up. He lets Sam lead him away. Before the door closes, they hear John saying, “I don’t like the sun, it makes my eyes hurt.”

Dean has to fight to swallow past the lump in his throat. He walks with his head lowered, the usual voices appearing again in the back of his mind, only this time they’re getting stronger.

_It’s your fault he’s like this._

Sam blocks his paths with his ridiculously wide frame. “Dean, what was that in there?”

Dean blinks up at him. “What was what?”

“You told him this is temporary?”

He shrugs. “It was the only way to get him to agree.”

Sam shakes his head. He rubs a hand down his face. “Dean, this is not temporary. _You_ know this isn’t temporary, right? He needs someone with him all the time. He can’t go back to Lawrence on his own.”

Yeah, of course Dean knows that. What’s Sam getting at?

“All I’m saying is, that Dad’s probably not getting any better than that. You’ve...you understand that right?”

“Sammy, I talk with his doctors every day,” Dean says. “I’ve helped him wipe his ass. You think I don’t know his condition?”

“Just making sure,” Sam says, shrugging. “You know I worry, too. Sometimes I think I should be here more—”

“No, come on, don’t say that.”

“—but, I’m sleeping a little better knowing you have Cas here with you.” Sam’s brow relaxes, the lines around his mouth smoothing. “He’s good for you, and I’m glad you have some help.”

Dean keeps his expression blank. “Yeah. Yeah, me, too. So, um, wanna finish setting up the TV in the living room?” 

Not the smoothest change of subject, but it does the trick and distracts Sam. 

It’s going to be a longer weekend than what he’d expected.

October arrives in soft yellows, bright oranges, and a rise in crime that keeps Dean at the station longer than he’d like. He doesn’t know what’s with people and cold weather, but it seems temperaments always run high around this time of the year. 

He’s already sent a quick text to Cas letting him know he’s going to be late—and got a kissing face emoji back, along with a note telling him Cas has a skype call with Billie Reaper, anyway—and now he’s in the middle of filling out all the reports that come with working on a new case. It seems fairly easy, though. They’re only waiting for the DNA results to come back to prove it was the husband without a doubt, and then it’s case closed. 

He’s spinning his pen between his fingers, typing one-handed, when the thing flies out of his grip. He bends to retrieve it from under his desk when his phone buzzes where it’s resting against his monitor. He snaps his head up so fast, he slams it into the underside of the table.

Motherfucker, that hurt.

Still cursing, he checks his phone, only for his blood to run cold. 

It’s Mrs. Moseley. But, why is she calling him? Did something happen? Is John okay? His stomach twists uncomfortably, and in the few seconds it takes him to answer the phone, his brain goes through a hundred worst-case scenarios.

“Dean!” John’s voice is shrill, almost hysterical. His breathing echoes down the line and makes Dean wince with how loud and agonizing it sounds. “Dean. Where are you? This—this woman—she won’t let me out of the house. She said you’re not coming. Are you? Dean!”

The words are slurred together so much that Dean has trouble understanding what John’s saying.

“Dean, I— I need— here. Dean!”

“Dad, Dad. Calm down.” Dean is already gathering his stuff, abandoning the effort of putting on his jacket halfway through and rushing out of his office with only one arm through the sleeves. “Listen, I’m coming, okay? Where’s Mrs. Moseley? Are you alone?”

“I don’t like her,” his father hisses. 

Then there’s a thump, like a door opening and closing.

Mrs. Moseley’s voice sounds distant but not unkind. “There you are, John. Ready for dinner?” There’s a beat, where John’s breathing becomes more erratic. When she speaks again she’s closer, and she doesn’t sound happy at all. “Is that my phone? Where did you get it? Who are you calling?”

There’s a struggle, during which all Dean can do is run to his car, saying, “Hello? Hello? Dad, are you there? Can anyone hear me?”

Then it’s Mrs. Moseley who answers him. “Yes, hello? Oh, Dean. It’s you? I’m so sorry, your father must have stolen my phone out of my purse.”

“I’m on my way,” Dean tells her, before ending the call.

Ten minutes and two red lights—which Dean ignored—later, he’s bursting into his father’s apartment. John is sulking on the sofa by the TV, while Mrs. Moseley is sitting in a chair across the room, a crossword puzzle in her lap. Her expression twists into worry.

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry.” She gets up and places the crossword on the table, before crossing the room to reach him. “I didn’t think he’d do something like this. He was upset when I told him you didn’t have time to see him today, but I didn’t… I didn’t think he’d call you.”

“Is he…” Dean trails off. He’s still trying to catch his breath, and he eyes the room around him like it holds all the answers. Unfortunately, all the answers are locked away in John’s frail mind, and Dean doesn’t have a key. 

When he exhales, he feels all the air rush out of him. He deflates. The distance between him and his father is only two steps, but it feels far greater. “Dad, what happened, are you okay?”

John turns to face him, the lazy eye the accident left him with wandering towards a spot behind Dean’s head. He grunts. 

“Did you steal Mrs. Moseley’s phone?”

“Don’t like her,” John says stubbornly, and he turns his nose up. “Don’t need her. You can help me. Send her away.”

“Dad, this is only for a short time, I promise,” Dean tells him through gritted teeth. With the adrenaline draining from his veins, he can feel the inevitable crash quickly approaching. “Mrs. Moseley is nice, and she makes a good chocolate cake. Remember? You told me you like her chocolate cake when I visited yesterday.”

She comes to stand behind Dean, offering an encouraging smile. “I have some more, if you want, John.”

That seems to get some mild interest out of him. “Chocolate cake?”

“Mmmm,” she says, turning to wink in Dean’s direction. “I’ll get you a slice, too, Dean. It’s sugar free, per doctor’s orders.”

“Oh, you’re an angel,” he tells her, dropping heavily on the sofa. He watches John struggle to his feet, and by now he knows better than to offer help. He follows Mrs. Moseley to the kitchen on unsteady feet, despite his death grip on the walker. 

It looks like it’s crisis averted. 

For now.

John’s distressed phone calls become a routine after that. It seems that no matter how much Mrs. Moseley and the second caregiver—no, wait, Amy is the third; Rose quit not even a month after starting—try, they can’t keep their phones away from him for long. Dean is baffled how a person who shakes so badly he can barely hold a spoon to his mouth without dropping it manages to steal phones right out of their pockets— and to figure out their passwords when he can barely see—but it keeps happening.

Sometimes he’s at the station, sometimes he’s at a crime scene, and sometimes he’s at home. Those are the worst. He has to come up with increasingly creative excuses to sneak away and talk to his father without Cas finding out about it. Dean’s lucky he’s so engrossed in his book and the most recent case for the newspaper to notice. Cas has been so busy lately that Dean would hate to burden him by complaining about his father. He’s fine. He’s dealing.

Mostly.

There are still some really bad days, but thankfully, today is not one of them. John didn’t even complain that much on the phone, and Pamela told Dean he hasn’t had a seizure in a while, so adjusting his meds must have done something right in his body. 

Dean will take all the good news he can get. 

He drops his phone on the bedside table before collapsing on the mattress, head first. 

He breathes in. And out. And in.

When Cas finds him there, he’s not sure how much time has passed.

Gentle hands slide up his back, massaging the knots on their way. Then a kiss is placed on the nape of his neck. “Hey. Sorry, I lost track of time while going through those files.” Another kiss, lower. Cas slips a finger into the hem of Dean’s shirt and pulls it down, tracing the skin there with his tongue. 

Something stirs low in Dean’s belly, but his whole body aches, and he’s not sure he can get it up right now, even if he tries. 

“Hey, babe? Do you mind if we don’t… I’m pretty beat.”

Cas pauses, hovering over him. His breath hits Dean in hot puffs for a couple of seconds, and then he’s gone. He drops on the mattress next to Dean. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just had a difficult day at work.” Dean’s lucky half his face is melted into the pillow and his expression is hidden. 

Castiel frowns at him, but there’s sympathy written in every line of his face. “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s get changed, and I’ll spoon you to sleep.”

“God, please yes.” What has his life become, that spooning and cuddling sounds so much better than sex? Dean doesn’t have the strength to ponder that, and maybe it’s for the best.

He goes through the motions of changing, mechanically, before joining Castiel under the covers. He lets Cas hold him, and he presses back, trying to steal some of his body heat. His whole body feels heavy. He can barely keep his eyes open. How lucky is he that he has Cas to take care of him? He’s not sure what he’d do without him. 

_And yet, you keep brushing him off._

The thought comes out of nowhere. It springs out of the half-formed thoughts that float around his head when he’s on the verge of falling asleep, but it’s enough to make him open his eyes wide again. 

Cas is so good to him, but what has Dean done to show his appreciation lately? Gone to a couple of nights out with his friends where he made half-hearted jokes while he secretly couldn’t wait to go back home and sleep? Ditched him time and time, again, to spend more time with John?

Dean is exhausted. Yet, as Cas slowly drifts off, his hold around Dean’s middle going slack, Dean stares into the darkness, heart thundering in his chest. Cold washes through him, and all he can do is lie there and think about all the ways he’s letting his wonderful boyfriend down.

Dean learns the hard way that he can’t bullshit his way out of every problem. It might have worked on Thanksgiving, but when he’s late coming home for the hundredth time on Christmas Eve, Cas is furious. As he has every right to be. Dean eventually manages to appease him—mostly because he knows he screwed up, he screwed up bad— and they make up, but even after they join the others back at the dinner table, Dean can’t shake the tension off. Even Jessica seems to notice, and she’s extra chipper to make up for the leftover awkwardness hanging over the table. 

Wonderful. Dean ruined Christmas Eve.

“So.” Sam clears his throat, and he comes to stand by Dean, who’s washing the dishes. They are alone in the kitchen; Cas and Jess have moved to the living room to finish their wine. “You were late.”

“Are you going to lecture me, too?” Dean doesn’t mean to snap. It just comes out of him. He regrets it immediately, of course, and he opens his mouth to apologize, but Sam cuts him off. 

“Hey, no, I’m not here to lecture you,” he says. “Did you and Cas fight?”

Dean nods. “Wasn’t it obvious?”

“Right.” Sam combs a hand through his hair. “Were you late because of Dad?”

“I…” He doesn’t know how to say this, but if anyone is going to understand it’s Sam. “He had a seizure, Sammy. I couldn’t not check on him.” 

“Is he okay?” Sam asks immediately.

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Dean says. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand, forgetting it’s wet, and he ends up with soapy water running down his face. He can’t be bothered to wipe it away with a towel. “He was just upset, but he wasn’t hurt. Luckily he was already in bed when it happened.”

“Did you tell Cas that?”

Dean hesitates. “No… I told him I had to get his prescriptions refilled.”

Sam’s face sours, just like Dean knew it would happen. “Why? I’m sure he’d understand if you told him it was something like that.”

“Because,” Dean says. “He has enough stuff to worry about already. He doesn’t need to worry about Dad, too.”

 _Or me,_ he doesn’t say.

Sam’s lips press into a thin line. “Why didn’t you at least tell me? Hell, Dean, why didn’t you call me when it happened? I would have come with you.”

“I didn’t want you to,” Dean says stubbornly. “You are here to relax and rest, not run after Dad.”

“But I want to run after Dad,” Sam says. “Dean, you are not alone in this. Just because I’m not here most of the time, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here, at all. I want to help Dad, I want to help _you._ You deserve a break, too, you know.”

“Sam, I’m fine,” Dean says. “I don’t need a break. Dad is fine. Today was just one of those days where everything went wrong.”

It’s not exactly a lie. John hasn’t thrown any major tantrums since Thanksgiving when Bobby was staying with him, and even back then, it only took thirty minutes of talking on the phone to calm him down, promise him that no, Dean didn’t hate him and he wasn’t spending the holidays elsewhere because he was tired of him, and then convince him to stop acting like a brat—Bobby’s words, not his—and eat something.

But since then, things have been going better. Mrs. Moseley and Pamela are extra vigilant, so John has only managed to steal their phones and call Dean in distress five times, and he’s been mostly good about taking his meds. So really, today was just a fluke, and Dean is so fucking tired that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

“I’m only saying, that maybe you’re doing more than you have to,” Sam says carefully. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

Dean finishes wiping the last dish and puts it on the rack to dry. He refuses to meet Sam’s eye. Irritation fizzles under his skin. “Sam, I swear to God. I had a very difficult day. When I say that I’m fine, maybe you should get the fucking hint and drop the subject.”

Sam looks like he’s going to say something else, but then he closes his mouth and nods. “Right. No, you’re right. It’s Christmas, we shouldn’t fight.”

And so the subject is dropped. If Dean spends the rest of the night anxious, well, no one else has to know. It’s better that way.

The lies Dean keeps telling himself to maintain the illusion that he’s in control of the situation come crashing down around him in March. As always, it starts with a phone call.

Dean has just arrived at work when he feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. His chest clenches at the sight of Pamela’s name. The only one who has managed to brave John so far besides Mrs. Moseley. All the others quit, sooner or later.

Nothing can prepare him for what she tells him when he picks up.

“Dean? Dean, thank God.”

“Pam, what happened? Is Dad okay?”

“I don’t know. He fucking locked me in the bathroom. He’s not answering me, no matter how much I yell, and I don’t know where he is.”

Dean almost drops his phone. “What?”

“He told me there was water leaking from the faucet in the bathroom, so I came in to check it out, and he locked me inside.” She talks fast, and in the background, Dean can hear a rattling noise, like she’s hoping to open the door by attacking the doorknob. “I don’t even know how he got the key, or how he was fast enough to use it before I got to the door. He can barely hold his own spoon.”

“I’m coming over,” Dean says and ends the call without waiting for Pamela’s answer. He does a 180, heading out of the office barely five minutes after he arrived. No one dares stop him, though. He’s not sure what his face looks like, but it’s enough that no one that glances in his direction even stops him to ask what’s wrong.

Just as he’d feared, when he arrives at the apartment, the only person he finds is Pamela, still locked in the bathroom.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” she says, rushing through the rooms in the same panicked way Dean did when he first arrived. Like him, she soon realizes that John is nowhere to be found. He’s gone. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Dean doesn’t have the time for her to be sorry. “We need to find him,” he tells her, grabbing her arm and dragging her outside. “You go around the block on foot, I’ll drive around. He can’t have gone too far, he can barely walk.”

She nods, her face pale but determined. “I’ll call you if I find him.”

Dean is not going to lose it. He’s not. He keeps telling himself that, even as he drives in increasingly bigger circles around the neighborhood. They are going to find him. For fuck’s sake, he’s a sick man who needs a walker to get from the kitchen to the living room, where could he have gone?

He hears it before he sees it. 

A blaring siren.

The ambulance drives right past him, and Dean can feel in his bones that it’s for John. He just knows it. He turns the wheel so fast that he almost drives into a mailbox. 

_No, no, no, no. God, please, no._

The ambulance leads him down a road that he’d passed by before, but this time, there’s a commotion. A car is stopped in the middle of the street, and a crowd is gathered by it. Dean feels a sense of foreboding settle deep into his bones as he slows the Impala.

_No. God, no._

There are paramedics walking towards the car. There’s a woman waving them over just as the crowd parts to let them through. And there’s John, lying on the road. 

_No._

Dean’s out of the car before he even knows it. He pushes through the crowd, head buzzing. His ears are ringing, but he must have said something, for the paramedics turn to look at him. One of them catches him just before he touches John and stops him. His lips move but there’s no sound coming out. 

Or Dean just can’t hear it. 

He doesn’t know what the hell the dude wants. All he cares about is his father, who is still on the ground with his eyes closed. 

Then the other paramedic crouches by him, bends over him, obscuring him from Dean’s view. 

Then John moves. Just a tiny bit, but he moves. When the paramedic moves to check on his legs, Dean can see John blinking. 

He’s alive.

_Thank God, he’s alive._

“...hear me?”

Dean snaps his head around. The paramedic has a hand on his chest, blocking his path, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? John’s alive.

“He’s my father,” Dean somehow manages to say, and the guy nods. 

“Look, your father looks mostly okay. The lady told us he was walking by the road when he seemed to lose his balance, and he fell in front of her car. Frankly, he’s lucky she managed to stop in time. We have to take him to the hospital just to be sure there isn’t any internal bleeding or a concussion. You can ride in the ambulance with us.”

“I have a car,” Dean says. “I’ll follow you.”

Surprisingly, he remembers to call Pamela. She cries out in relief when Dean tells her he found him, and she promises to meet him at the hospital. Her taxi arrives just as Dean parks the Impala, and they go to the ER together. 

They have to wait for almost an hour before a doctor comes to find them, but it’s good news. Aside from a few bruises, John’s okay. 

“Physically, I’d say he is in as good a shape as he can be. He only complained of some dizziness before he fell on the street,” the doctor says. “Mentally…” he frowns. “Did something happen today to make him upset?”

Dean turns to look at Pamela, and she shakes her head. “No. No, he was fine. I mean he ate his breakfast without complaining, and then we put on his favorite TV show to watch. There’s nothing...” she trails off. Then she goes pale. She turns to Dean, shaking. “He kept asking for you, and I told him you couldn’t come today. He was insisting on seeing you, but I knew you had to get ready for your trip this weekend. I told him as much myself, and I… he didn’t look upset then, but what if…”

“Shit,” Dean says.

The doctor looks between them, and—probably realizing that this is not a conversation he has to be here for—clears his throat. “We’ve given him something to calm him down and we’ll be keeping him tonight for observation, but you can see him in ten minutes, or so. Just ask the nurse over there.”

“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” Pamela sits bent over like she’s going to be sick, her face buried in her hands. 

Dean knows he should do something to console her, but he’s empty inside. “It’s not your fault,” he says, and the words sound hollow even to his ears. It’s the truth, though. It’s not her fault.

_It’s his._

_He did this._

The thoughts float around his brain, consuming everything that might try to convince him otherwise. His chest is so tight, when he’s allowed into John’s room, that he’s surprised he can still breathe. 

John is lying on the bed, his arms loose at his sides, a machine keeping time to his heartbeat. Dean can barely look at him.

“Hey, Dad.”

John stirs, something shining with recognition behind his foggy eyes. “Dean,” he croaks. “I found you. I knew I could find you. Did ya tell her? Ya have to tell her.”

“Dad, why did you run away?” Dean asks, his hands curling into fists inside his pockets. “Dad, look at me. Where were you going?”

“She’s lying,” John croaks. The beeping picks up as his face twists with rage. “She’s lying. She said I can’t see you. She said you’re leaving, but I know better. I know you.”

“Dad, I’m not going anywhere.” His voice breaks. “I wasn’t leaving you.”

John is past the point of cohesion, though. He doesn’t even listen to what Dean is saying, he just repeats his monologue, cursing Pamela, asking Dean not to go. The beeping is becoming erratic now, and distantly, Dean’s glad for the sedative they’ve given him. It’d be just his luck that standing in the same room as his father is enough to make his blood pressure skyrocket and give him e a stroke.

Probably alerted by all the screaming machines, a nurse rushes into the room. She takes one look at John throwing a fit and Dean standing there unmoving, and she springs into action.

“Visiting hours are over,” she says, pushing him firmly out of the room. “You can come again tomorrow.”

Dean doesn’t have the mental or physical strength to fight back. He has a lot to do, anyway. There are papers he needs to sign, and then two officers show up asking about the old man a woman almost ran over on the street. It’s a blessing Dean has his badge to show them, and they easily accept the short explanation he gives them about a sick man who didn’t know what he was doing.

Then there’s Pamela. 

She insists she’s going to stay at the hospital in case anything happens, but Dean drives her first to the apartment to pick up her toiletry bag and then back to her house. 

It’s getting dark by the time he makes it back home. His whole body is tingling with discomfort, and his stomach is so tight he’s tempted to empty all its contents on the side of the street. 

He doesn’t. 

Cas is waiting for him upstairs, and they can cuddle together on the sofa, and Dean can unload all his crap on his boyfriend and finally get this weight off his chest. 

And God, does he need a beer.

“You’re late.” Cas meets him at the door, a mischievous glint in his eyes; Dean’s still too numb to form a proper sentence, let alone kiss back when Cas pecks him on the lips.

“I had a terrible day,” he wants to say, but the words never make it past his lips. 

Cas beats him to it. “I have everything packed, and I phoned the BnB and confirmed our arrival tonight. Do you want to rest for a bit, or should we head out?”

_BnB?_

Ah, shit, Dean completely forgot about that. For a second, he’s tempted to cancel everything, but then he takes in Cas’ bright smile and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he can’t do it.

“No, I’m fine. Let’s just get the bags into the car and go.”

Getting their stuff to the car takes only a couple of seconds—turns out Cas packed everything while he waited for Dean—and then they’re in the car and it’s too late to back out of this.

And he shouldn’t back out of this. No, Dean has to go on this trip. He has to. They are supposed to be celebrating Cas’ book, and fuck if Cas doesn’t deserve this. 

Except he has to go back to the hospital tomorrow, doesn’t he?

His grip on the wheel hesitates. 

No. No. Pamela can take care of John tomorrow, she said so herself plenty of times today. That’s why he’s paying her and Mrs. Moseley. Bobby would probably make the trip down to KC, too, if Dean pulled over and called him right now.

He doesn’t call. 

John won’t accept Bobby, and he sure as hell won’t accept Pamela. So what other choice does Dean have?

There’s a headache throbbing dully right behind his temples, and all of a sudden everything annoys him. The Impala makes too much noise, it feels too hot, and his clothes are itchy. 

He can’t do this.

There’s a park just ahead of them. 

“Hey, do you mind if we stop here for a while?” His voice quivers, though Cas doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Sure. It’s a nice night, anyway.”

They park at the entrance, and Cas wanders through the park, aimlessly walking towards the general direction of a canteen. Even from behind, Dean can tell he’s in a good mood. He’s been looking forward to this weekend for so long. How is Dean going to tell him that they might have to cancel?

Not might. _Have to._

It tears Dean up inside, but his father needs him.

 _Cas needs you, too,_ a voice points out, and Dean wants to cry from frustration. He feels stretched thin, unable to keep his father and Cas separate from each other. He thought he could, he really did, but every single day of these past months has been a painful reminder of what a failure he is.

He ruined Cas’ Thanksgiving, and he managed to get in a fight with pretty much every important person in his life over Christmas. He and Cas argue more and more often, because he forgets to do stuff, or they have plans and Dean is always late. And John…

Well, Dean ruined John’s whole life, didn’t he?

He shivers but it’s not from the cold. He takes a seat at one of the tables under the fairy-light canopy, and it’s a beautiful night, a pretty place, and Cas looks as gorgeous as ever when he sits across from him.

Dean’s insides are bleeding. He reaches over the table, palm up and Castiel easily holds his hand. His smile is so sweet, and Dean doesn’t deserve him.

“Are you okay?”

No, he’s definitely not okay.

“Listen, Cas, we need to talk.”

But at least he knows what he has to do.

He drops his eyes to the table, worried that if he looks at Cas he won’t be able to say what he has to. “It’s just, there’s some stuff…” He’s a horrible, horrible person. But this is the only way. “I’m not sure what I want from my life right now, and I need some, some time.”

“Time.” Cas’ hold on his hand wavers, but he doesn’t let go. The excitement he was brimming with just seconds before is slowly evaporating.

“Yeah.”

He can’t make the words come past his teeth, and he chokes on them. 

“You have a whole weekend ahead of you,” Castiel says, offering him a weak smile; Dean can’t believe that he’s such a big mess that Cas has to console him even now. “You’ll get some much-needed rest, and by the time we return home you’ll feel better. We both will.” 

Dean closes his eyes and steels himself. This is the right thing to do. “That’s the thing. This weekend… I’m sorry.”

Castiel’s face falls, though he visibly fights not to show it. “We can cancel if you want. We can go back home and spend two days in bed with pizza if you’d rather do that.”

“I can’t do this,” Dean says, and he pulls away. Drawing this out is only making things worse. “I’m sorry. But I just—this is not going to work. I’m sorry, Cas.”

There’s a beat, where neither speaks. Something imperceptible crosses Cas’ expression, and Dean knows he’s hurting him.

It’s better to hurt him now than to continue letting him down, though. This is the right decision. 

Gathering every last thread of self-control he has, Dean turns to look at Cas. He doesn’t cry. “Say something.”

Cas stares at something past Dean’s head. “Like what?”

Dean doesn’t cry. He won’t. “What you think about this? Anything.”

When Cas speaks, he sounds like he still can’t understand what Dean’s telling him. “If this is about us going on a trip for the weekend, we can cancel it.” His voice cracks at the last word, and Dean’s heart cracks along with it.

Dean aches to touch him, but he can’t. It will only prolong the inevitable. Dean is a train wreck, a black hole that destroys everything that comes near him, and he won’t let Cas be the next victim. “It’s not about the weekend, Cas, okay? It’s not…you didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

In hindsight, maybe he could have worded that better.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Cas asks, jerking away. His lips flatten, and his eyes grow hard, and Dean swallows past his dry throat.

Okay, so Cas is angry. Anger is good. Dean can handle anger. 

“I promise you, this is for the best,” he says.

Anger is healthy, he tells himself. It’s what Cas should be feeling. When he tried to help Dean, to tell him that cancelling their weekend was the solution, it wasn’t right. Dean can’t be what Cas needs, because he has to be there for John. 

At last, this is clear in his head.

Cas breathes in noisily, shakes his head. His shoulders start trembling, as if he is holding back from lunging at Dean, and then he’s up. He turns away, takes a few steps, and when he looks like he’s about to stumble, Dean rushes to his side immediately, catching him. 

“Cas, are you okay?” 

Cas is bent over, hands on his knees like he’s about to puke, and now Dean is starting to get worried. 

“Talk to me. Please talk to me.”

“Tell me you’re joking,” Cas says. He turns to look at Dean, with those big blue eyes that make him go weak at the knees, and Cas begs. “Tell me that this is a bad joke, and we’ll never talk about it again.”

Dean stares back at him, unable to speak. He can’t do anything but keep his hand on Cas and stare at him, mouth stubbornly closed, lest a stray word comes out of his mouth and makes this worse than it already is.

Something breaks inside Cas. Dean can see it in the way his face twists, his mouth presses together and a single tear runs down his cheek. Then another. And another.

He did this. He hurt him. Again.

“Why?” Cas asks through his tears. “Why are you doing this? Why now?”

Dean aches to wipe the hurt away from his face. He longs to hold him, tell him it’s all a big mistake, and they can run away forever and forget all about their problems. He can’t, though. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

That’s all he can say. That’s what he keeps saying while Cas keeps asking for an explanation, a word, something. He says it until the words lose their meaning, until his own eyes are stinging with tears, and until the very night echoes with it.

_I’m sorry._

“Let me go.” Cas pulls away violently. His lips are trembling, but any trace of the affection he had when he used to look at Dean is gone.

Dean’s not sure if Cas wants to run away or hit him, but he prepares for both.

In the end, Cas does nothing. He stands there, trying to catch his breath, and every sob is like a knife through Dean’s gut. 

He did this.

Cas steps back, wiping his nose with the back of his hands, and something inside him looks like it’s collapsing. His shoulders fall, his chest caves in, and he looks so frail Dean can’t just stand there and watch him. 

He takes a step forward and opens his arms to hug Cas on instinct, forgetting, for a moment, what he’s done. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cas hisses, voice raw. “Don’t touch me, just don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean doesn’t know what else to say. This is all he has to offer. Like him, the words aren't enough. “Tell me what to do. Please, Cas, tell me what you need.”

Anything to stop Cas from crying, anything to stop him from hurting. 

Dean didn’t want this, he never wanted this. 

Cas is the confident one, the one in control of everything. It should have been Dean who got his heart broken, not the other way around.

“Take me home,” Cas says, low enough that Dean almost doesn’t catch it. 

When he realizes what Cas has asked for, though, he springs into action. “Of course. Anything you want. Just promise me you’ll be okay.” He can do this. If only Cas keeps telling him what to do, Dean can pull them both through this.

He extends his hand, offering it for support.

Cas bats it away. “Don’t. Just don’t. All I want is to go back home.”

“Alright,” Dean says. He swallows his grief down. It doesn’t matter how he’s feeling. He has to be strong for Cas. “Alright. Let’s get back in the car, and I’ll take you.”

The drive back passes by in a blink. Dean doesn’t realize they’re back until he pulls up in front of their— Cas’ apartment. It’s the first time since they met that he doesn’t know what to say. He knows very well that this might be the last time he sees Cas, talks to him without the forced neutrality of exes that have become something less than acquaintances. 

He’s numb inside.

“Do you...Do you want me to help you carry the bags up?”

Cas shakes his head. “No, I can do it myself.”

And just like that, it’s over. Cas gets out of the car, grabs some bags from the trunk, then walks up to the front door and gets inside. There’s nothing left for Dean here. 

He lingers for a couple of minutes, watching the window up on the third floor. It remains dark and silent. No sign of Cas. 

Dean drives away. 

About a block away, he realizes that he doesn’t have a plan. His stuff is still at Cas’. He doesn’t even have a place of his own to go back to. Except that’s not true. He does have a place. 

He is parked under John’s apartment, staring at his phone and wondering if maybe he should let Pamela know he’ll be staying here from now on. In the end, it doesn’t matter. For tonight, the place is empty and all to himself. Dean curls on the couch, alone, cold, and still in his clothes, and lets grief consume him.


	13. Chapter 13

_ October 2019 _ _  
_ _ Three Days Missing _

Castiel exhales roughly, watching Dean drive away.

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

He turns to go back to the room, his whole body buzzing with nervousness. To say this was not how he expected this talk to go? Understatement. He paces the room, trying to fit everything Dean just told him into his head, but it’s impossible. Nothing fits into the neat little boxes he likes so much, and everything starts melting together into one giant mess of knots he can’t even begin to untangle.

For one, there is Sam and his fight with Dean just before he disappeared. It doesn’t change anything, he’s still convinced Sam would never disappear on Dean like that, but it does complicate things. Just the fact that Dean chose to hide this from him complicates things.

And everything else Dean kept hidden…

Castiel thinks back to the months between John’s accident and their break up, and he scrutinizes every time he’d looked at Dean and thought he was okay. Well, he never thought Dean was  _ okay _ , but he thought he was dealing. Hell, he’d thought he was being supportive by giving Dean the space he needed, back then. How was he supposed to know that Dean was breaking apart on the inside? How was he supposed to know that John was that bad? He understood that brain damage meant a whole lot of seizures and severely weakened mental abilities (plus a crapload of drugs that needed two bags to carry them back home), but he never realized it was… like  _ that. _

He can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for Dean, living with the constant fear of his father calling him, or worse, someone else calling about his father. It’s a miracle he managed to hide it from Castiel as long as he did, and in light of these revelations, Dean breaking up with him makes some sad sort of sense. Of course he broke up with Castiel, when in Dean’s mind the only solution was to move back in with John to take care of him. Of course he kept everything inside and suffered alone, like the self-sacrificing, narrow-minded, pig-headed idiot he is. Of course Castiel has been holding a grudge for all of that, like the oblivious jackass  _ he  _ is. 

Hushed arguments in his parents’ bathroom during Thanksgiving, another on Christmas Eve with Sam and Jess waiting at the dinner table, endless fights around their apartment, all flash behind his eyelids. Castiel insisting they go on a trip. Castiel insisting they go out, even though he could see that Dean was tired. Castiel being needy and clingy without ever stopping to ask Dean how he felt.

Not knowing about it doesn’t feel like a good enough excuse. He knew Dean. He should have seen past his words back then and pressed Dean for the truth, instead of retreating back to a corner to lick his wounds. Dean was never the asshole in their relationship, at least not the only one, and here’s Castiel being an asshole all over again, making Dean admit all that stuff and then letting him run away to God-knows-where. 

He’s just really hoping Dean’s not drinking. 

The bar is not that far away, but if he knows Dean as well as he thinks he does, then going back there will be pointless. Dean’s not the type to drown his sorrows in a bar when he’s this stressed. Dean would rather drink somewhere without an audience, and more importantly, without anyone to stop him. 

Dammit, why does he keep screwing this up? Every time Dean needs him, Castiel just manages to make everything worse. So much for being there for the person he loves.

The frustration spreads through him in waves, each stronger than the previous one, until it bursts out of him with an angry cry and a fist that hits the wall closest to him. The bite of the drywall against his knuckles does the trick to help him focus, just barely, but enough for him to catch the rumble of a big car outside the motel room.

Dean’s back, he realizes.

He waits and waits, but the door never opens. When almost half an hour has passed, Castiel goes out to investigate. The Impala really is parked outside the motel, but there’s no Dean in sight. 

A door bursts open somewhere behind him, and Castiel spins around just in time to see Dean rushing out of Sam’s room.

“Dean,” he calls, already walking towards him.

Dean’s eyes snap to him. He’s flush-faced, hair askew like he’s been running his fingers through it for hours, but he doesn’t look angry anymore. 

“Cas, you won’t believe what I found.”

“What were you doing in Sam’s room?”

“It doesn’t matter, come and check this out.”

They’re barely through the door to their room when Dean spins around, trapping Castiel between him and the door with barely any room to move. Dean opens the notebook in his hands and recites, “ _ Andy and Brady were at the diner again, and this time they asked me to sit with them. I know it’s only because Andy is hoping Ruby will spend more time talking to him that way, but it’s a good opportunity to get to know Brady better. _ ”

“What’s that?” Castiel frowns, snatching the notebook out of Dean’s hands.

He leafs through the battered pages, pausing to look at the pictures glued inside, and read a few of the notes scribbled around them along with the longer passages.

“Is this…”

“Ava’s diary,” Dean answers, breathless. “I found it in Sam’s room.”

“Sam had Ava’s diary? Where did he get it?”

“Who cares? He had that diary, and I bet it helped him get further with his investigation than the police. That’s why somebody made sure he disappeared.”

Castiel shakes his head, trying to wrap his mind around that. This is big news. No, scratch that. This is huge news. This could be the key to finding what happened to Ava, and by extension, Sam. 

They spend the next two hours taking turns reading the notebook from cover to cover. It’s long and filled with all the angst a teenager can manage, as well as some very lengthy—and very detailed—descriptions of Ava’s dates with Brady Allen. Either the girl has a very active imagination or she read too many Harlequin novels, because Castiel is a professional writer and he’s not sure he can describe a dick with as much detail as she does in her most recent entries. 

“Dude, this has everything,” Dean says, waving the notebook around. “Every fight she had with her foster mom, every date she’s been on, hell, even the day she got fired from her part-time job.”

“And it proves that what Ruby told us is true,” Castiel adds, taking the notebook back to re-read some pages he’d dogeared. 

_ I’m tired of this shitty town, with its shitty people, and even-shittier school. Shitty Eve yelling through the night again. Maybe Tommy would stop crying if she actually knew how to take care of him. _

_ Stupid asshole fired me for showing up late. How am I gonna save enough money to get out of here now? _

_ Brady and I met under the bleachers again. He’s the only one I’m going to miss when I finally leave.  _

_ Ruby and I found this old barn just outside of town. It’s always empty, since old farmer John only uses it for storage, and it has the perfect hiding spot for the whiskey Ruby swiped from Eve’s stash. And more importantly,  _ _ no asshole bartender to kick us out. _

“But if she really did run away, then why would anyone hurt Sammy?” Dean wonders out loud, taking Castiel’s attention away from the diary. 

“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe something happened to her before she managed to get out of here. She talks a lot about trying to save enough money to be able to live comfortably for at least a couple of months once she leaves, but she mentions quite frequently that Eve Maxwell took money both from her and Ruby.”

“With the way Ava talks about Eve Maxwell in here, I don’t see her keeping those foster kids for long.”

“Maybe Eve realized Ava was hiding money from her?” Castiel suggests, trying to make sense of all the new information. There has to be a reason she disappeared, and a very good one if someone made sure Sam disappeared, too, when he came looking for answers. “Or maybe Ava did threaten to tell everyone Eve was not treating her children right.”

“And Eve would lose her paychecks along with the kids,” Dean adds. “And then she wouldn’t be able to afford her new television.”

“Could be,” Castiel agrees. There are plenty of pictures of Ruby and Ava throughout the diary, with small doodles like mustaches and hearts drawn on their faces. As the entries get closer to the date she disappeared, more and more mentions of Brady start showing up, along with pictures of all four of them together: Brady, Ava, Ruby, and Andy. 

“We should give this to Mills,” he says finally.

Dean looks at him like he lost his mind. “What? This might be the key to solving this crime, Cas.”

“Exactly. Mills can use this to figure out what happened to Ava, and she has many more resources than we do. Not to mention, she could arrest us for hiding such important evidence in the investigation of two missing-persons cases.”

Dean pouts, but agrees, so they call Sheriff Mills and tell her about the book. 

Castiel knows they made the right decision, but he also knows that waiting is the hardest part of an ongoing investigation he’s not part of. Mills at least takes her job seriously enough to send officers out to all the locations mentioned in Ava’s diary, in case she’s been hiding this whole time. She also tells them to sit tight and not meddle with her investigation again.

By the time Mills drives away, the sun is setting and Dean is antsy. 

“I can’t just sit on my ass, Cas,” Dean says, pacing their room.

“We don’t have anything else to do.”

“There has to be something.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, as soothingly as possible, “You know that an investigation takes time. Finding that diary wasn't a magic button that would show us the way to Sam."

Dean collapses on his bed. "I know it's not, but…I got so excited when I found that diary. It was a new piece of information, something important, and I guess…"

"Yes?" Castiel gently encourages him.

Dean lets out a bitter laugh. "I guess I thought this diary would help us crack Ava's case, and we would catch her killer, or kidnapper, or whatever."

"And then we'd find Sam," Castiel finishes for him. "You're right. I do think that if we find Ava—or the person who hurt her—we'll inevitably find Sam, too. It just doesn't happen with the snap of your fingers."

"It's been three days already."

"Dean, I know. And we're doing everything we can, as is Mills. Have a little faith."

"Yeah, because faith has been so much help so far," Dean snorts. "It wasn't faith that pulled my sorry ass out of that pit I'd buried myself in, and it sure as hell wasn't faith that dragged me to rehab. That was Sam and Bobby."

“I'm sorry,” Castiel said softly. “Dean, if I had known, if I had known any of that—”

“Cas, don't. Just please, don’t. I have too much crap on my mind to deal with that freak out, too. Let’s just forget it even happened. It’s not like it changes anything.”

Castiel waits. The question burns behind his ribcage, where it’s been since he did the math and figured out Dean’s problems with alcohol started around the spring of 2018. In the end, he can’t hold it in.

“Were you in rehab in…” He can’t say it, after all. Not outright. “In May of 2018?”

Dean stills. “Yeah.”

“Did you… is that why you never answered my message?”

“Yeah.”

“I just wanted to say I was sorry. For John.” Castiel picks at the collar of his shirt, rubs the fabric between his fingers. 

He can’t see Dean’s expression from where he sits. 

“How did you know Dad had died?” Dean asks.

“One of my contacts at the police station told me,” Castiel says. 

“So, he told you…”

“He told me you got fired,” Castiel says, admits. “I didn’t know about anything else.”

“Huh,” Dean says. A pause. “I’m sorry I never answered you.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says. He means it, too. 

They spend the rest of the night in the motel, watching whatever’s on TV. Castiel doesn’t know about Dean, but he’s too busy thinking about everything that happened today to pay attention to why Dr. Piccolo slapped that nurse. She slaps people all the time, anyway. 

He thinks long and hard about what Dean told him, and whether or not it changes anything. When he finally drifts off, he’s come to the conclusion that yes, it does change some things, but there are so many others it doesn’t. Castiel was still in love with Dean even before he knew all that. Knowing the real reason Dean pushed him away only makes him feel like a shittier person. 

This time, the phone call comes later in the day, but Dean and Castiel are on the road just as fast. Following Mills’ directions, they make it to the old barn in less than fifteen minutes. 

When they arrive, it’s to a whirlwind of yellow tape, officers, and police cars—too many police cars for such a small town, Castiel thinks. They probably asked for backup. There are several buildings on the property, as far as Castiel can tell, but the police force is gathered around an old barn that sits on the edge of the field, semi-hidden by a tree line and a little secluded. It doesn’t look run down, but it’s not as well-maintained as the other buildings in the area.

They’re not allowed past the tape that marks the crime scene, but one of the officers murmurs something into his radio and soon Sheriff Mills comes to talk to them.

“We found a body,” she says without a greeting. She has dark circles under her eyes and her hair looks like it needs a good washing. It’s quite evident she hasn’t been home since she last talked to them, opting to work through the night, instead. 

“Is it…?” Dean trails off, not wanting to finish his question.

“It’s a woman,” Mills tells them. “A girl. It looks like Ava.”

Castiel’s stomach tightens. He knew this was the most likely conclusion to this case, but until a body is found, there’s always hope. He’d hoped Ava Wilson had run away and started her life elsewhere. “Does her family know?”

“We’ve sent an officer over to their house, and I’ll be joining them shortly. We have to take statements from everyone again, try to piece together her final hours.”

Castiel watches the officers working around the barn, their force concentrated somewhere outside the main building. “So, the diary really did hold the key to finding Ava.”

“I’m sorry to say that it did,” Mills agrees. “The owner just uses this barn for overflow storage—extra gasoline, spare parts for his equipment, that kind of stuff. I doubt he comes out here often enough to have noticed teenagers were hanging out in his barn, but we’ve sent someone to ask him about Ava. I don’t think anything will come out of it, but it’s part of the procedure.”

She gives them a curt nod before going back to her work. There are a lot of things to be done now, Castiel knows. It’s going to be a long day for the Sheriff, and even longer for them. 

Dean looks green enough that he might throw up any minute. Without asking, Castiel knows what he’s thinking, and he really hopes the next time they get a call it’s not about another body that needs to be bagged and sent to the mortuary. 

Castiel wraps his arm around Dean and guides him back to the car. There’s nothing more for them here. 

_ Zero Days Missing _ _  
_ _ Saturday Night, 23:59 _

Sam steps out of the destroyed car, and his legs give out. He drops to the ground next to what’s left of the car, and he holds his head between his hands. There’s a ringing in his ears that stops him from focusing on what’s happening around him, and the world is blurry around the edges. 

How did he even get out here?

Wasn’t he talking with Dean on the phone? Yes, yes, he was. They were arguing, and then… No, that’s not it. He was going back to his motel. No. That’s not it, either. 

He was in his room, and there was Ruby.

_ Ruby. _

This is her car. She stole Sam’s car, so he took hers to chase her down. Which is how he finds himself out here in the middle of nowhere, taking a mental inventory of his whole body to make sure nothing is broken. 

An engine roars in the distance, cutting through the heavy cotton enveloping Sam’s brain. It’s getting closer. There are lights coming towards him. She’s coming back. 

Sam looks around him, shaking his head in an effort to clear his mind. He can’t let her get away. There has to be… there has to be somewhere for him to hide, so he can ambush her. He’s going to catch her and drag her all the way to Sheriff Mills and make her confess. She’s the one who killed Ava, Sam’s sure of it. 

He tries to push himself up to standing, but his right ankle throbs with pain when he tries to put weight on it, and something wet runs down his temple. He taps his pockets and finds his phone, but the screen is a web of crushed crystal and blackness. He’s alone out here with a murderer. 

He needs to find a place to hide.  The field is covered in overgrown grass and bushes, but Sam walks farther, looking for something else, a better spot. 

The car is getting closer, he can hear it. 

There’s a tree trunk just a few steps ahead, and it looks big enough for him to hide behind. He makes his way over on unsteady feet, waves of pain rippling through him every time his right leg touches the ground.

Just a couple more steps. 

Something groans under him. 

It cracks. 

Sam loses the earth under him. 

In a panic-filled moment, he’s falling.


	14. Chapter 14

_ March 2017 _

Castiel doesn’t sleep that first night. He barely gets up from bed to find something to eat the next day. He’s not sure ‘half of a forgotten sandwich he found in the fridge’ counts as eating, but it’s all he can force down at the moment. 

He keeps checking his phone. 

It can’t have ended like this. A message is bound to arrive at any moment with an apology, or even an explanation.

It doesn’t. 

Castiel drowns in his pain. Netflix becomes his best friend for a whole week, during which he answers no one’s call but his mom’s, and he only speaks to her for a couple of minutes before finding an excuse to hang up, so he doesn’t have to tell her. He can see messages piling up on his phone and even more emails from Billie piling on his computer, but somehow he can’t find it in himself to care. 

The book is the last thing on his mind right now. 

And then the doorbell rings.

Castiel springs up, heart beating uncontrollably in his chest. Could this be Dean? It has to be Dean. No one else would go to the trouble of coming to his apartment just to check in on him. 

When he opens the door, it’s Sam that smiles weakly back at him.

“Hey.”

Castiel blinks. “Hello, Sam.” He licks his lips. A hundred thoughts pass through his head. Didn’t Dean tell him they broke up? And why is Sam suddenly visiting from Cali, anyway? “What are you doing here? Dean’s not…”

“I—I know,” Sam cuts him off, lifting his arms as if to say  _ it’s going to be okay.  _ “That’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sam tilts his head to the side, his mouth curling uncomfortably. “Dean sent me to gather his stuff.”

The words hit Castiel like a slap. His throat tightens up, to the point of pain. “Yes, of course,” he says, breathlessly. “Come in.”

“Thank you.” Sam walks with his shoulders sagged, and he avoids meeting Castiel’s gaze. He has a duffel bag with him, something Castiel only now notices, and he takes a toiletry bag out and places it on the coffee table. “I think this is yours.”

Right. The stuff Castiel left in Dean’s car. Of course. “Do you need help?”

“I think I can handle it on my own,” Sam says. “I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Castiel drops on the couch. Forces himself to breathe. 

Dean’s not coming back. 

The thought chokes him, and he has to close his eyes. 

He inhales and counts. 

One, two, three. 

Exhale. 

Inhale. 

One, two three, four. 

Exhale.

What feels like a lifetime later, Sam returns to the living room. He lifts the bag to show it to Castiel. “I think I got everything.”

“Right.”

Sam clears his throat. “So, um… see you later, I guess.”

Castiel stares at him blankly. They’ll probably never see each other again, at least not intentionally. He imagines it’s the polite thing to say in circumstances like this, though.

After Sam leaves, Castiel walks to the window out of habit, but what he finds there makes him stop dead in his tracks. The Impala is parked right across the street. The driver is hidden from Castiel’s view, but it could only be one person.

Dean.

A cold shiver runs through Castiel. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to rub some warmth back into his muscles. So, Dean made it all the way here but stayed in his car.

He watches Sam cross the street, drop the bag in the back seat and then go around to get in the passenger side. Castiel feels numb. The car remains motionless for a long time, enough that a sliver of hope dares to peek through the darkness consuming Castiel’s mind. Maybe Dean has changed his mind. Maybe he’ll get out of the car right now and come up to talk with Castiel. Maybe— 

The Impala drives away.

Castiel’s ribs threaten to crush his lungs. He stares at the empty road, mind buzzing. He’s been wallowing in self-pity for the best part of a week. He hasn’t showered in three days, and he walks around the apartment with a blanket around his shoulders at all times. And Dean didn’t even bother to gather his stuff himself. He had to send his brother.

He had to humiliate Castiel.

The look of pity Sam turned on him before he left will be forever seared in his mind. 

His muscles are quivering, but instead of cold, a vicious heat spreads through him. His blood is boiling. 

There’s a picture of him and Dean sitting on the table by the window. Dean has his arms around Castiel, his jaw on his shoulder, and they’re both smiling without a care in the world. Just looking at it makes Castiel see red. His vision goes dark around the edges. 

He grabs the photo, opens the window and tosses it outside. 

He’s done crying over Dean. He has better things to do. Fueled by rage and spitefulness, he does everything he avoided in the last week. He takes a proper bath, and he cleans the whole apartment. He tosses everything he can find of Dean’s in a box, tapes it shut and writes Sam’s address in California on it. If he came to pick up Dean’s clothes, he might as well get everything else as well. 

When even that doesn’t stop his hands from shaking, he sits at his laptop and answers every message and email he can find. While he’s at it, he blocks Dean on every social media he can think of. When he’s ready to delete all of their photos, he hesitates. The mouse hovers over the little bin, and something inside him breaks. He shuts his laptop, grabs his keys and goes to find the photo he threw out hours ago. 

“I’m just saying, it’s been more than a year. Maybe you should start thinking about it, at least.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He balances his phone between his ear and his shoulder, letting Gabriel continue his lecture about Castiel’s love life—or lack thereof—without really listening. Keeping an eye out for his contact, he leans against the wall behind him, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. The street is fairly empty, despite the warm temperatures that came with the beginning of April. 

“Inias is a nice guy,” Gabriel says, and Castiel can match that tone with the mental image of his waggling eyebrows.

“I don’t care.”

“You have to get over Winchester at some point. You don’t have to date Inias, but at least go out for a drink and fuck him.”

Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm himself down. “Maybe I don’t want to fuck him, ever thought about that?”

“Why not?” Gabriel exclaims with genuine surprise. “He’s very handsome. And all you need him for is a one-night orgasm-fest to get  _ it  _ out of your system.”

At that moment, Castiel’s contact rounds the corner. Perfect timing. Just as he‘s getting tired of Gabriel. “Yeah, I’m gonna hang up on you now.”

“Remember, no better way to get over someone than to get under someone else!” Gabriel yells down the line, before Castiel has a chance to end the call. 

He shoves his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms over his chest. 

He’s already over Dean, and he certainly doesn’t need to get under anyone else. Maybe he just doesn’t feel like fucking anyone. Has Gabriel thought of that?

“Someone’s in a pissy mood,” Arthur Ketch comments, raising an eyebrow in Castiel’s direction as he approaches.

“Not in the mood for it, Ketch,” Castiel says, offering his hand, palm up. The faster they’re done here, the faster he can go back home and start his research for this new case.

Ketch fishes an envelope out of his pocket, but he holds it out of Castiel’s reach. “Say the magic word.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, pursing his lips together, and Ketch shrugs.

“Can’t even take a joke, can you?”

“It’s not my fault your boss insists that you pass this to me in person,” Castiel says, snatching the envelope out of Ketch’s hand to skim through the files on the new murder he’s investigating. “If Rufus wasn’t a paranoid asshole that was scared to use email, neither of us would have to tolerate the other.”

“Trust me, I’ve tried to change his mind plenty of times,” Ketch says.

Castiel leafs through the reports and frowns. “Is this all you have?”

Ketch shrugs. “It’s all the captain wants to give the press. Honestly, this case is a mess.”

“Not enough evidence?” Castiel asks, fishing for any extra information he can get. After he broke up with Dean, his unofficial partnership with the Homicide Division hadn’t ended. Instead, he now has a contact that passes Castiel the files Rufus wants leaked to the media. His current go-between, Ketch, is a new addition to the department, but so far Castiel much prefers him to the skinny, happy-go-lucky guy he worked with after Dean. At least this one isn’t trying to befriend him every time they meet. He’s had enough of police detectives to last him a lifetime, and—

He shakes his head to snap himself out of that train of thought. There was an unhealthy amount of Winchester written all over that, and he’s not letting himself get in that downward spiral again.

“The amount of evidence isn’t the problem.” Ketch shoves his hands in his pockets, checking up and down the road to make sure no one is within earshot. “The detective in charge of this one screwed up, big time. His name’s Winchester, maybe you know him?”

Castiel shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t, but he’s already looking up and Ketch takes that as a sign to continue.

“Now, this is just between us, so don’t let me see it printed all over the news, tomorrow. The guy turned up to the crime scene completely wasted.” Ketch chuckles, and at the same time Castiel’s stomach tightens uncomfortably. “He tripped over a chair, disrupting the scene, and as if that wasn’t enough, on his way out he threw up right on the doorstep of the house. Rufus ripped him a new one when he found out. I swear you could hear him yelling all the way down the road. 

“What happened?” Castiel asks, before he can stop himself.

“With Winchester? He got fired.”

“No.” Castiel’s voice almost dies in his throat. He shouldn’t, but curiosity burns through him stronger than he can fight. “No, I mean, do you know why D—Winchester showed up drunk at the crime scene? He wouldn’t—I mean, from what I know about him, he wouldn’t do that.”

“I heard his father passed away, a month or so ago,” Ketch says. “Maybe that has something to do with it.”

Castiel’s vision is going dark around the edges. John Winchester is dead. He’s not sure how he feels about that revelation, except that it leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat and a dark pit in his stomach. He wraps up the conversation with Ketch as quickly as he can, after that, and heads home. 

Instead of going through the files, he thinks, long and hard, and not about anything relating to the murder he’s supposed to be investigating. 

He could send a text. Condolences. Yeah, that’s the polite thing to do.

No, no. He won’t do it. Dean never sent him so much as a ‘ _ hi _ ’, or even a ‘ _ happy birthday _ ’, so he doesn’t deserve anything from Castiel now.

Though, that might be a  _ bit _ petty.

He could always text Sam. That might be safer. Just say how sorry he is, and that he hopes Sam and his family are well. He won’t even mention Dean. See, He can be a mature person who is over his ex. And that’ll be all. Conversation over, topic hidden in the back of his mind and forgotten.

There’s no need to involve Dean in this. 

There’s no need to get involved, again.

Half an hour and several changed opinions later, Castiel looks at what he has written in his phone, throat dry.

_Hello, Dean. If you have the time, I’d like to meet up for coffee_ _sometime this week. How about this Friday? We can meet at the_ Duke’s _around seven._

Is it good enough? Should he send this? No, he should probably delete it.

But if he does, he’ll never muster up the courage to send another one.

Before he can change his mind, he presses send. Watches the little circle next to his message become a tick, then be filled with color. It’s done. It’s sent. There’s no taking it back, now.

He takes a deep breath.

What the fuck did he just do?

No! No, it’s done. There’s no use crying over it now, and no need to panic. He throws the phone down, getting up to find something to occupy himself with.

What’s the worst that can happen, anyway?

Dean never answers his message, but Castiel makes it to the  _ Duke’s _ on Friday, anyway. He takes a cup of coffee to nurse while he waits, and he checks his phone. 

Still no word from Dean.

But that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Dean just didn’t want to discuss this over text. Despite everything that happened between them, Castiel still believes that Dean wouldn’t just ignore his message.

He wanders close to the windows, choosing one of the trendy lower tables that seem to be everywhere these days. He sinks into the leather chair, crosses his knees and uncrosses them again. He moves to place his coffee on the table, then changes his mind at the last moment and it keeps it in his hands. He realizes belatedly that he’s still wearing his trench coat, but it feels awkward to get up and take it off, now.

So, maybe he’s a little nervous. He thinks he’s allowed to be.

Couples and families sip their drinks around him, their murmured conversations reaching him in broken pieces. Someone laughs, a woman hums in appreciation, and a group of teenagers giggle, bent over their phones. Time passes, slow and torturous. People come and go. Some alone with their laptops, some in groups, some with their eyes trained on the door, waiting for their dates.

Castiel stays calm. Maybe Dean is late. Yeah, that’s probably it. Traffic can be terrible at this time of the day, and the Impala is a big car. Finding parking won’t be easy.

He gets another coffee.

His phone remains dark, the chair across from him empty. 

One last cup of coffee, he promises himself, stealing glances at the door. His heart catches at his throat every time the little bell announces a new customer, but it’s never the one he’s waiting for. 

By the time it’s dark and the coffee shop is mostly empty, his last cup has gone cold and his stomach is bitter. The lump in his throat is too thick to say goodnight to the barista as he leaves. 

Such an idiot.

He’s such an idiot.

He can’t believe he let himself have even a glimmer of hope. He walks through the darkness, the air making the leaves swirl around his feet along with the pieces of his broken heart. He can’t believe he let Dean do this to him again. 

Not even a fucking message. That’s what he’s worth to Dean. That’s what their whole relationship is worth to him. Nothing. 

The night is sweet and cloud-free, but there are goosebumps travelling down his arms.

Never again, he promises himself. He’ll never let Dean Winchester hurt him again. From this day on, Dean is dead to him. 

“Cassie, what’s up? Haven’t talked in a hot minute,” Gabriel says, and his insufferable smile can almost be heard through the phone. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Castiel says. “Listen, actually, I’m calling because I need a favor. Do you maybe have Inias’ number?”

Stunned silence follows his words. Then Gabriel exhales in disbelief. “Well, fuck me.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather not,” Castiel says dryly. 

“Uh, yeah, me neither. But I’ll text you Inias’ number and you can go to town with him.”

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

This is it, Castiel thinks, while he stares at his phone, waiting for Gabriel’s text to arrive. Ready or not, Castiel is finally moving forward.


	15. Chapter 15

_ October 2019 _ _  
_ _ Five Days Missing _

News spreads like fire around the town, so by the time Dean and Castiel arrive at  _ Donna's Delights  _ for breakfast, it seems that not only does everyone know who they are, but they are also looking at them with pity. 

Dean slams the door harder than it needs, making Baby groan her protests, and Cas looks over at him, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Are you okay?"

"No," Dean says, shoving his hands in his pockets and heading for the bakery. He's not in the mood to talk, not about Sam, not about Ava, and especially not about his father, so he ignores how Cas' eyes are glued to his back. He made it the whole night brushing Cas off, he can last a few more hours.

"Good morning!" Donna's greeting accompanies the small bell above the door that announces them entering. To her credit, her smile doesn't fall when she sees him, but it does falter. "Dean! Welcome back." Her voice is slightly higher than normal, but the cheeriness is still there.

"Hey, Donna," Dean says, strolling up to her counter. "Got a table for two?"

"Of course. It's been a slow day, so you can take your pick and sit wherever you like."

"People not in the mood for good coffee today?" 

She shakes her head from side to side like she's trying to find a delicate way to put her next words. "Everyone's been restless, with the latest news. And a lot of people are busy taking down those missing posters."

Dean glances outside, where the walls do look a bit cleaner than he remembers. Ava Wilson is no longer missing.

Cas comes to inspect all the delicious stuff behind the cases and, predictable as ever, orders a coffee and two blueberry muffins. Dean takes a pie with his own order, and they settle at a table in the back of the bakery, away from the curious eyes of passersby. 

Soon Donna brings over their order, a big smile stretching her cheeks from ear to ear. "Here ya go! I hope you enjoy."

They thank her and then focus all their attention on their breakfast. Or at least Dean does. Otherwise he'd have to acknowledge the way Cas is still staring at him like he's worried Dean might break down, any moment now. And it might be true, but talking to Cas will only accelerate that process.

So, pie and coffee it is.

"I'm sure more evidence will come up, now," Cas says finally, sipping his coffee. "Did you see the crime scene? It was a mess."

Instead of an answer, Dean groans, something close to agreeing.

"Looked like the work of an amateur, even from afar. Don't you agree?" Cas presses on.

Dean puts his cup back down, hitting the table a little harder than he intended and making some of his coffee spill. He doesn't find it in himself to care. "What part of ‘ _ I don't want to talk,’  _ don't you get?"

Cas blinks, Dean's fury sliding right off him like water on metal. 

"You said you don't want to talk about  _ some _ topics, specifically, not that you don't want to talk, period." Cas only pretends to tiptoe around the elephant in the room.

"Yeah, I changed my mind. I don't want to talk, period."

Castiel sighs. He doesn't say anything, but instead of getting up and leaving—like Dean expected, like Dean would have done in his shoes—Cas just sits there and waits. It's almost like they are back home and Dean's angry at something that happened at work, and Cas is waiting for him to calm down.

It's far more personal, now.

"We know nothing," Dean says. "We've been here for two days and we know nothing. We don't even know if Sammy made it back to the motel that night."

"We're trying, Dean," Cas tells him in a soothing tone. "Sheriff Mills is trying, too. There was a police officer talking with Bill Gallagher again when we were leaving."

"But that's my point, they shouldn't be talking to that guy again. They should be out there searching for my brother."

Dean's cell phone rings in his pocket, cutting Cas off before he can say anything. 

Dean has barely picked it up, when Sheriff Mills barks in his ear, "Come to the station, some new evidence has come to light."

The police station looks like a beehive under attack. It’s good Dean already knows where Mills’ office is, because he doesn’t think anyone has the time to show them. The Sheriff is pacing the floor behind her desk, a file in her hands. 

“Please sit down,” she tells them, gesturing at the same two chairs they sat in the first time they were here. She cuts straight to the point. “Normally, I’m not allowed to share this information, but I figure this case is unique. Not only because it’s directly related to your brother’s case, but also because you’ve been a great help with the investigation, so far.” 

Cas and Dean both lean forward, Dean’s whole body buzzing with anticipation. This had better be worth his time. 

“Preliminary results from the autopsy are back,” the Sheriff tells them. “It looks like the cause of death was blunt trauma to the back of the head, though we are still looking for the weapon. More importantly,” she pushes the file across the desk for the two of them to take a look, “Ava Wilson was pregnant when she died. Our coroner thinks she was about ten weeks along.”

“She was pregnant?” Cas repeats, letting Dean read the rest of the file.

It’s a weird sense of déjà vu, reading an autopsy report after he’s been a civilian for well over a year, now. It’s as if not even a day has passed since he was handed files like this to look over for a living. Now he just hopes this is the last time he ever has to see one.

Sheriff Mills raises her eyebrows at the two of them. “Her pregnancy is not noted in Ava’s diary at all, but it does make for a very good motive.”

“You think Brady killed her?” Dean asks, tearing his eyes away from a close-up of the wound on the back of Ava’s head that makes his stomach churn. All his worst fears come back to haunt him.

“We’re bringing him in for questioning as we speak, but he’s very high on our list,” Mills says. “Not only would he be the one most affected by Ava’s pregnancy, but we know Sam wanted to meet with him on Saturday.”

“I don’t understand,” Cas cuts in. “Why are you telling us all this?”

“If Brady really is our guy, that means he’ll probably lead us to Sam, so I’ve decided to ask the two of you if you want to observe his questioning.”

Dean feels his brows draw together. “That’s not legal.”

“Doing things by the book hasn’t helped us solve this case so far, so if we can keep this between us, you guys can watch from the adjacent room,” Sheriff Mills says, threading her fingers on the desk in front of her. She looks exhausted, and Dean can only imagine all the pressure being put on her. He guesses she’s desperate to close this case already.

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “When is Brady Allen coming in?”

“We’ve already sent two officers to his house, so it shouldn’t be too long. I have my men working on getting a search warrant for his house, as well.”

It takes half an hour for two officers to appear with Brady Allen, which Dean spends glaring at a wall and refusing the coffee Cas tries to give him. He’s hyper-focused and more than ready to get in the room to interrogate that bastard, and he has to remind himself multiple times that he’s not going to be the one doing the interrogating. He’s merely a spectator, like Cas was so many times in the cases they worked together. That probably explains why Cas can look so composed this whole time. 

They’re led to a small, dark room where they can sit and watch behind a one-way mirror. Brady Allen is already sitting behind the table in the middle of the other room, while the two officers are sitting across from him. They ask him about the last time he saw Ava, grilling him about the days leading up to her death, and all Brady can do is shake and tremble and look like he’s on the verge of tears.

Dean doesn’t feel sorry for him in the slightest. If he’d just killed his girlfriend in the heat of the moment, maybe he’d have some sympathy for the boy, but going after Sammy, that was a calculated move, and one Dean will never forgive. 

“You’re lying to us,” one of the police officers accuses Brady, and Dean feels Cas shift ever so slightly next to him. They’re getting into the juicy part of the interrogation, finally.

Wiping some snot away with his sleeve, Brady shakes his head. He’s tapping his leg nervously under the table. “I’ve already told you everything I knew. My girlfriend is dead. Why can’t I have a moment to mourn her, like any normal person?”

“Your girlfriend was murdered,” the officer corrects him, while his colleague pulls a couple of photos from the file in front of him and slides them to Brady. Dean can’t see what they show, but he can guess, and his suspicions are confirmed by Brady’s reaction. He gives them a very quick glance, then turns them face down, a hand over his mouth like he’s about to throw up. Or like he’s lying through his teeth.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“This is how Ava was found,” one of the officers says, watching Brady’s every move like a hawk. If he’s expecting Brady to break down and confess everything, it doesn’t happen. 

The other man sighs and leafs through the files, again. He nods, satisfied, at whatever he’s found and says, “Ava Wilson was pregnant when she died. Now, we can easily ask for a DNA test, but I’m pretty sure you’re the father.”

Brady goes even paler at that. 

“Did you know she was pregnant?” the officer asks, though it’s clearly only a routine question, and he already knows the answer.

“Oh, God,” Brady cries out and buries his face in his hands. A sniff escapes him, and his shoulders shake while he tries to regain his composure. “I swear I didn’t kill her,” he says. 

“That’s not what I asked you. Did you know she was pregnant?” the officer asks again.

“I did. Jesus, yes, I did. But I swear I didn’t kill her.”

“Why didn’t you share this information before she was found? It would have been important to know something like that.”

Brady shakes his head, chest caving like he’s about to collapse on the table in front of him. His voice is shaky and on the verge of breaking. “I thought she had run away. I thought she went somewhere to, to take care of it. Oh, God. I thought she’d come back, and I didn’t want everyone to know what she’d done. They’d crucify her for something like that around here.”

“I doubt that,” the officer says dryly. “So, you’re saying you thought she ran away to have an abortion, decided no one had to know about the baby, and yet it was you that reported her missing.”

“I was worried, at first. I didn’t think about where she could have gone until… until after. I would never hurt her, you have to believe me.” The last part comes out like a strangled sob.

It leaves Dean cold and indifferent, he’d seen far better actors crying over their victims, back in his day.

The officer leans back in his chair, his nonchalant posture in complete contrast to the way Brady seems to be trying to fold himself in a ball of self-pity small enough to disappear from view. 

“We have testimonies from Ava’s friends that say you two got into a lot of fights in the weeks leading up to her disappearance.”

“Her murder,” his colleague corrects, again. 

“Right, her murder.”

“Her friends? You mean Ruby.”

The officer checks his notes. “Ruby Doe and Andy Gallagher both mentioned multiple fights between the two of you that they were witnesses to. Neither of the two could tell us what you were fighting about, though.”

“She was pregnant,” Brady says around another sob, and now tears are really running down his cheeks. “She wanted to keep it, and I was only a few months away from leaving for college. I worked hard for that scholarship, what was I supposed to do?”

“So, you killed her,” one of the officers says.

“No. I didn’t. I would never hurt her. I asked her to get rid of it, time and time again, but I would never raise my hand to her.”

“Maybe it was an accident, I get it. Maybe you said a few things and she said some things, and one thing led to another. You said it yourself, what could you do? You couldn’t abandon your life and your future for a girl like Ava Wilson, right?” the officer says, like he hasn’t listened to a word Brady said.

“No. That’s not how it happened.”

“And then Sam Winchester enters the picture,” the officer continues, and Dean’s heart rate picks up. “He was asking all those questions, pressuring you. And he had Ava’s diary. What if he knew Ava was pregnant? He was already suspicious of you, and it wouldn’t take long for people to believe him, if he had written proof. Did you get him outside? Or did you find him in his motel? I know Andy’s family owns that place, it would be easy to get a key to his room.”

Brady shakes his head, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of the water. His eyes look hollow enough to resemble a skeleton. 

Cas makes a small noise in the back of his throat, but Dean can’t spare enough brain cells to figure out what he means. 

“Did he catch you trying to steal the diary? Or did you decide to go after him directly? What did you do with him, Brady? Come on, you can tell us. Don’t you want this whole thing to finally end? All you have to do is tell us what you did to Ava and what you did to Sam Winchester.”

Brady just keeps staring at them, empty, like his soul has left his body.

The officer doesn’t back down, though. “His family is here and looking for him, you know. They’re suffering because of you, the least you can do is give them an answer.”

The officers keep the pressure high, questions having firmly turned into accusations now, but Brady Allen has shut down. He doesn't answer them, he doesn't ask for a lawyer, he doesn't even react, anymore. He just sits there and waits. Whether it's from shock or guilt, Dean doesn't know, but it means the interrogation ends soon after, leaving a bitter aftertaste in the back of his throat.

They spend the rest of their day at the station, waiting for test results, news on the warrant, anything, but no matter how much everyone seems to be running around like crazy, nothing seems to happen. Finally, long after the sun has set, and even longer after Dean thought Cas would bail, Mills tells them to go home for the night. There's nothing else they can do, for now.

Back in the car, Dean turns to look at Castiel. “What do you think?” His voice is rough from disuse, having spent the last several hours communicating through grunts and shakes of his head.

“I think that I'm very tired, and so are you. Mills is right, we should grab something to eat and get some rest,” Cas says.

It's not the answer Dean wanted to hear. It's not even the answer he expected. In the last couple of days, Castiel has turned into an overbearing mother hen, which is all kinds of weird and also all kinds of frustrating. Dean doesn't need coddling, he needs his brother back.

“Brady Allen,” Dean clarifies. “What do you think of him?”

Castiel sighs but this time obliges him. “Are you asking me if he did it? I don't know. The police have come up with a very convincing theory, but so far all their evidence is circumstantial, at best, if not downright reaching.”

“You think they got the wrong guy?”

“I said, I don't know.”

“There's something bothering me,” Dean says, voicing what has been on his mind for a while now. “It doesn't fit.”

“What doesn't?”

“Why was she found at the barn? It's a place she talks about a lot in her diary, but she never mentioned visiting it with Brady. If it wasn't a place they met up at, how did they end up there that night?”

“We already know she wasn't writing everything in her diary. She didn't write about the pregnancy, after all,” Cas points out, patient as ever.

“Just humor me for a minute; don't you think there's something we're missing?”

“Yes, Dean, it’s called sleep.” Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “Have you slept at all while we’ve been here?”

“A little,” Dean grumbles, busy cleaning imaginary dust off of the steering wheel to avoid meeting Cas’ gaze.

Cas chuckles in response. “You're a terrible liar.”

“It's not like you’ve been getting more sleep than me,” Dean shoots back.

“I had stuff to think about.”

“Oh, and I didn't?”

“Okay, enough,” Cas says, raising his arms in surrender. “Fighting will get us nowhere. If you don’t want to go back to the motel, where do you want to go?”

“Back to that crime scene,” Dean says without hesitating, and then to stop Cas’ protests he continues, “If I could take a look around the barn, maybe I’ll find something the police overlooked. Maybe Sammy went there, too.”

“You want to trespass on a crime scene.”

“That’s too patronizing a look from someone I literally met trespassing a crime scene.”

Castiel shrugs, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips, and Dean’s heart flutters despite the hollowness inside him. 

“Touché,” Cas says, buckling up and leaning back in his seat. “I don’t think we’ll find anything, but if it’ll make you feel better, then we should go.”

Dean has the car going in a matter of seconds, and Cas places a hand on his wrist to get his attention again.

“But after that, we’ll get something to eat. And then promise me you’ll try to sleep.”

“Of course,” Dean lies easily. 

Yellow tape marks the crime scene. It looks almost neon under the Impala’s headlights. 

Dean doesn’t spare a glance to the direction of the shallow grave Ava was found in, he knows the police have already combed through every single pebble out there. But  _ inside _ the barn, now that’s a completely different story. Mills and her officers were in a hurry. They’re under a lot of pressure. If they made a mistake, here is where Dean will find it.

Dean parks right in front of the barn, as close as the tape will allow him, and they get out. Just as he’s going for the trunk, Castiel pauses and turns around. He lets his gaze wander over everything, and Dean just watches him. He knows Cas thinks this is not going to lead anywhere, but he’s still here and trying to help. It’s nice to know he has Cas on his side; it makes him feel that little bit stronger. 

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel turns around just in time to catch the flashlight Dean throws at him. Perfect timing. They’re still the best team out there, Dean reminds himself. They might have a shitload of issues to work through, but this, they know how to do flawlessly. They’re going to find Sam, of that he’s sure.

He leads the way inside the barn, certain that Castiel will follow him eventually, and so loses no time using his own flashlight to check around the barn. An area is taped off, where the police have left a tag identifying the spot as evidence number fifteen. A closer inspection reveals a poorly concealed bloodstain under the hay scattered all over the floor—the murder site.

“How long has it been since this place was last used regularly?” Castiel asks, coming to stand next to him. Unlike Dean, who is inspecting the ground around the bloodstain, Castiel is busy checking out the barrels and crates stacked against the walls. 

Dean shrugs. “A long time.” Maybe a few years, judging from the rust on the metal barrels closer to the door. A strong, oddly sweet smell hits his nose when he steps closer to them. Gasoline, he thinks, dropping his light to follow the almost-faded tire tracks on the ground. The farmer who owned this place wanted it to be well-stocked, judging from the stacked barrels there are. 

He lifts his eyes, trying to estimate the distance between the ground and the ceiling. It looks shorter than the building looked from outside. Apart from the ground floor and the loft that he can see, there has to be at least one more level, like an attic. 

“Should we separate?” Castiel suggests, already walking towards the ladder that leads up to the loft. “It’ll be quicker that way.”

“Sure. I’ll do the ground floor, and then meet you upstairs?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Dean mentally shrugs his detective jacket on, ill-fitting as it is after all this time. The investigation of a crime scene is still a routine for him, and he loses himself in the familiarity of counting steps, clearing section after section, dropping to crouch by a corner to check all the empty beer bottles discarded there. Ava and her friends weren’t very careful about cleaning their hideout, it seems.  They had really bad taste in alcohol, too, he notes, shining some light on a few of the labels. He can hear Castiel’s steps becoming more distant above his head, then the sound of boots climbing stairs. No clues in the loft, then. 

He pushes himself up, knees popping like they tend to do, lately, and he heads deeper inside the barn. It’s just a barn, he finds. Some evidence of teens partying is still scattered around, but nothing else interesting. A heaviness settles over his shoulders, and he heads back, ready to go and find Castiel. Maybe there’s something up in the attic that will help them. 

He walks back out in the open space of the barn floor, where the moonlight spills throughout the open door.

He pauses. 

Something feels different. 

He can’t put his finger on it, exactly. Maybe the door is open just a hair wider than what he remembers? Like there’s more light in here now. Or maybe it’s because his eyes have gotten used to the dark by now. 

His instinct tells him that’s not it. 

He stalks around the room, ears open for any kind of sound beyond the whisper of wind passing through trees outside. There’s still the steady  _ thump thump thump _ of Castiel walking around somewhere above him. 

And then he sees it. A few feet away from where Ava was killed. There’s a big box there, but it has been moved. Not by much, but enough for him to notice. The dust around it shows a clear path of someone pushing it around and then trying to put it back in its place. 

Every nerve ending in his body is alert as he slowly rotates in place. If whoever has moved the box is still here, then they’re hiding somewhere. Somewhere close by, because there’s no way they made it farther inside the barn without Dean noticing them. 

He holds his breath, and he hears an exhale followed by a muffled inhale, like someone is holding their hands over their mouth. 

Shit, he doesn’t have a weapon, he realizes, even as he pinpoints the location of the breathing, just behind the gasoline barrels closest to him. Moving as silently as possible, he grabs one of the empty beer bottles. It’s better than nothing. He moves towards the barrels.

“I know you’re there,” he hisses, his grip tightening on the bottle’s neck. He speaks the words low, like a warning, but they sound loud like an explosion in the silence of the barn. His own rapid heartbeat echoes all around him.

No answer comes. But Dean knows what he heard. 

He walks towards the barrels, flashlight steady in his hands because he’s going to get this bastard. He’s going to make them lead him to Sammy, even if he has to break their fingers one by one. 

One step towards the barrels, and the night keeps perfectly still. 

Another, and a distant bird takes flight. 

A third step brings him almost right up to the barrels, and something crunches under his boots. 

His eyes fall to follow the sound. 

That’s all the distraction the intruder needs. 

Dean hears the hollow sound of a body hitting metal, a pained groan, and then the stacked barrels right in front of him come crashing down. He jumps out of the way, landing on his shoulder and sending a jolt of pain up his spine. Nothing lands on him, thankfully.  He rolls around just in time to see a figure darting away. 

“Hey,” he yells, turning the flashlight to follow the figure. He raises the empty bottle and throws it. It’s certainly not going to stop them, but it might buy him some time. 

The bottle breaks right in front of the figure, who yelps and jumps back in surprise, stepping right into the line of Dean’s light. Dark wavy hair spills from under a grey hood, and big brown eyes turn to look at him in terror.

“Ruby,” he says, dumbfounded. 

Of course, why didn’t he figure it out earlier? She was the one who hid out here with Ava. It was always her. 

She has a bundle wrapped in a dirty rug clutched to her chest, and she takes a step back. 

“Ruby, wait,” Dean says, a hand out to soothe her as he slowly lifts himself up.

“Why?” she asks, voice trembling. “So you can turn me in? Or are you going to say that you can find a way to help me, huh?”

“It was you,” Dean says instead. “You killed Ava.” The truth of it reverberates through his chest. 

“What if I did?” she yells, loud enough that the steps above their heads pause. “She deserved it for being stupid enough to get herself knocked up.”

“Your sister gets pregnant and your solution is to kill her?” Dean asks. He doesn’t get any closer to her, only walks slowly in a wide circle, trying to get between her and the door. She’s upset enough that she doesn’t notice, even as she keeps spinning around to keep Dean in her sight the whole time.

“You don’t know anything,” she tells him, her hold on the bundle tightening—is that the money? “We were going to run away together, finally get out of this hellhole, and she threw it all away for a silly daydream. I told her Brady didn’t want that baby, but she said she knew how to make him reconsider. She said, if they had enough money to start their own family, Brady would stay.”

“She had money,” Dean says, and he takes the final step that puts him firmly in front of the door. Ruby can’t escape without passing by him, now. “She was saving money from her part-time job.”

“ _ We  _ had money,” Ruby corrects him, then she shakes her head. “No,  _ I  _ had the money.  _ I  _ worked my ass off at that dingy diner, letting old men get away with slapping my butt because they’re the best tippers. And do you know what she was doing the whole time? Fooling around with Brady Allen instead of looking for a new job. And she wanted  _ my _ money. After everything, she came out here to steal my money and my chance at getting away, all because she was a stupid little slut.”

“And so you killed her,” Dean finishes for her. “Did Sam figure it out? What did you do with him, huh?”

“Sam Winchester,” she says, almost spitting the name out in disgust. “The big, fancy savior. He was a liar, like all of them, and he deserved what he got.”

Her words throw Dean off, enough that he doesn’t notice one of Ruby’s hands reaching into her pocket. He hears Sam’s name and all he can focus on is finding his brother. 

This girl knows what happened to his brother.

“And so will you,” Ruby says, and the lighter falls from her hand. 

A single spark is enough for the gasoline to catch on fire, the flames quickly spreading to follow the path of the spilled liquid. Dean lifts a hand to protect his face from the sudden heat and light, and the next thing he knows Ruby knocks into his shoulder as she runs past, breathless and gasping, to disappear into the night.

“Hey, wait,” Dean yells, making to follow her, but the realization hits him like a freight train. 

The fire burns bright and hot and grows taller with every passing second. It reaches the walls in record time, consuming the old wood. 

Cas is upstairs. 

Dean can’t leave without him. 

His lungs are burning with every agonized breath of air he tries to take. 

The barn door stands wide open right ahead of him, and the sound of a car roaring to life carries loudly over the creaking of the boards as they surrender to the fire.

His stomach is twisted in a tight knot, his legs itch to turn and run, but he won't. Dean turns his back to the promise of safety and runs deeper inside the barn. He can’t leave, not yet.  He rushes through the blaze, eyes searching for a way to get to the upper level.

There has to be something,  _ anything _ .

The fire has already reached the ladder, the scorching blaze climbing up the steps with every passing second. There’s the lifting rope, still intact on the other side of the barn. It hangs a few feet above the ground, and Dean's heart soars at the sight of it, even though he knows it's too high for him to reach it without some help. 

He checks around him, eyes stinging with tears, desperation choking him almost as much as the dark curls of smoke surrounding him, and then his gaze lands on the old barrels.  _ That's it! _

He dashes for them, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his mouth. 

He has to make it, he has to save him.

The barrel is heavy, filled to the top with old grains. It takes all of Dean's strength to manhandle it close enough to use it to reach the rope, but the strain on his muscles barely registers. The adrenaline rushing through him with every frantic heartbeat leaves no room for anything beyond his single goal. Everything else is drowned out. His pulse beats loudly in his ears, counting down the seconds before the fire spreads too much and traps them here without any chance for escape.

No. Dean won't let that happen. He's the one that started this, and he's going to figure a way out of it. 

Groaning, he pushes the barrel into position, climbs on top of it and charges for the rope. He hangs in mid-air for a second, weightless, feeling the heat of the fire lick his skin on his left side, and he knows he’s running out of time. Against his muscles screaming for him to let go and run, against the rough texture of the rope burning his palms, Dean climbs.

_ I’m coming,  _ he wants to yell, but the words die behind his gritted teeth.  _ Hang in there, Cas. _

_ Zero Days Missing _ _  
_ _ Saturday Night, 23:01 _

Getting the key to Sam Winchester’s room from Andy was the easy part—just batting her eyelashes at him was enough to get him distracted—but searching for the diary is hard. Ruby goes as fast as she can, careful to leave everything as she found it. She’s only here for the diary, and then she can buy herself enough time to figure out her next move. But she can’t plan her next move without knowing what Ava wrote in that stupid thing. If she’s written about their plan—or worse, where their money is—it’s game over. 

The thought of Ava makes her pause. Her hands are shaking, and when she looks down she can almost see the blood on them. She can still hear the thud the rock made when she dropped it, impossibly loud in the silence of the old barn. Louder than Ava’s surprised cry when Ruby had hit her.  _ It was an accident, _ she chants in her head, taking deep breaths until her heartbeat has slowed down, somewhat. 

What happened to Ava was an accident, but if anyone finds out, all her plans will be destroyed, and she can’t let that happen. She has fought against everyone and everything to make it this far, from escaping her junkie of a mother, to putting up with Eve’s unreasonable demands and expectations. Ava was a mistake, and everyone is allowed to make a couple of mistakes in their lives, right? Now she only has to make sure that she covers it up. 

Finding the diary would be a good start. 

She searches inside every drawer, goes through his clothes and checks under his bed, but the diary is nowhere to be found. Heart beating right under her throat, she keeps searching, becoming more desperate with every passing second. It has to be here, it has to. The diary disappeared from Ava’s desk right after Sam came over for a visit. He has to have it. 

She’s so focused on her task that she doesn’t notice her car keys falling from her pocket while she searches every inch of the bathroom, nor does she pay attention to the car parking outside the motel room until it’s too late. But she does hear the sound of a car locking, and she bolts up from where she was looking behind the desk.  She does the only thing she can think of, at that moment. She hides in the closet, managing to close the door behind her just as the motel room door opens. Through a crack she watches Sam Winchester enter the room. 

Shoulders sagging, Sam drops his briefcase on the desk and shrugs out of his jacket. He doesn’t seem to notice that the light was already on when he came in, and Ruby breathes out in relief. If he’s not suspicious, she has a better chance of getting out of here. 

Sam walks by the closet and straight into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Now’s her chance. Ruby sneaks out of the closet, feeling her heart beat hard enough to jump straight out of her chest. She should go, now, before he comes back out, but her eyes are glued to the briefcase. Maybe the diary is in there. 

Just as she reaches out and unlocks the flap, the bathroom door opens with a  _ click  _ and Sam Winchester steps out of the bathroom. He lifts his eyes and stares straight at her.

For a horrifying moment, Ruby stares back, terrified and shaking. She stares at Sam, who is holding a set of keys in his hand. _Her_ keys, she realizes, looking at the key chain hanging off them. They must have slipped out of her pocket while she was searching.

And then everything kicks into gear. Sam’s eyes widen, and Ruby is out of time. She grabs the briefcase and turns it over, the contents spilling all over the desk. She doesn’t see the diary, but she does see a set of car keys and she grabs those just as Sam steps up to her saying, “What are you doing in here?”

She turns, ready to leave, but Sam grabs her wrist and pulls her back.

“Ruby, what the hell?” Sam says, realization slowly dawning on him. He gapes at her. “You.”

“Yeah, me,” she agrees and does what she knows is most effective in these types of situations: she kicks Sam in the crotch, as hard as she can. 

He doubles over in pain, releasing her.

Ruby doesn’t wait to see what he’ll do next. She runs out of the room, pressing the unlock button on the car key until she sees one of the cars light up for a second.  _ Bingo _ . She has the door open and is sliding behind the wheel when she looks back towards the motel and she sees Sam limping out of the room, chasing her.

As if she’ll sit back and wait for him to catch her. She presses down on the accelerator, screaming through the parking lot and narrowly missing Sam as he hobbles after her. Then she’s barrelling out onto the road and driving like crazy. 

What the fuck is she going to do now? She has to run away. She has to get her money out of that barn ASAP and get the hell out of Dodge before Sam can get in touch with the police.

The roar of a car behind her snaps her out of her panic. She checks the mirror and finds her  _ own _ car chasing her. Or rather, Eve’s car. She shakes her head. It doesn’t matter whose car it is; Sam has the keys, and he was smart enough to use them to chase her. 

He’s chasing her!

She has to get away. Shit, she is not going to get caught by Sam fucking Winchester, of all people. 

She knows just the right place to lose him. It’s just outside of town, on the long, narrow road that stretches through the cornfields. There’s a point, a turn that’s too dangerous. A car driving too fast won’t be able to make it. A driver that doesn’t know the place will definitely not make it.

Sam presses closer behind her, and Ruby rolls her shoulders back. She already has one dead body on her conscience, what’s a car accident, compared to that?


	16. Chapter 16

_ February 2018 _

Dean’s head is pounding like crazy. He groans, feeling around next to him, but there’s nothing there. Where’s his phone? He cracks an eye open to search for it and, dear God, that was a big mistake. A rude sunbeam penetrates his skull, making the pain worse.  He rolls over, sheets tangled around his legs, and buries his face in a pillow. At some point, this pounding has to stop. Except it doesn’t. And the more Dean lies there, the more he realizes that it’s not just his pulse beating like crazy.

Someone’s at the door.

“Go away,” he yells, the sound coming harsh and raw out of his mouth. His throat feels scratched and bloody, and his mouth tastes like something died in there. 

“Dean, open up.” It’s Sam, and his pounding on the door only becomes more insistent. 

Figuring that letting him in will at least stop most of the noise, Dean drags his sore body to the front door.

“Jesus,” Sam says, pushing inside. “What’s that smell?”

Dean sways a little on his feet, his head swimming with how fast Sam’s moving around. “Smell?” he asks, frowning. Then he lifts his shirt up to his nose. “Oh, sorry. I think that’s me.”

Sam curls his lip in disgust. “Wonderful. Get a shower and brush your teeth. It’s time for you to get out of here.”

“Nah, I have everything I need right here,” Dean says. He staggers towards the kitchen and digs around in the first cabinet that he reaches. He still has half a bottle of cheap whiskey in there, but it’s not nearly enough. He has to go buy more. 

But first, coffee.

He gets a pot brewing under Sam’s judgmental bitchface, and he tries hard not to let it get to him. It’s so easy for Sam to be all high and mighty. What does he have to worry about? His perfect girlfriend? Or his perfect job? He should have stayed in Cali, where he belongs, instead of dragging his ass here every other weekend to guilt trip Dean into getting out of the house.

It’s not like he has a reason to get out of the house, these days.

“Stupid stairs. Ugh, my knees are not what they used to be.”

Dean rolls his eyes, a whole-body movement that makes his stomach lurch. He hides it purely out of stubbornness, and he turns to glare at Bobby appearing in the kitchen door. He can only guess when the old man made the trip from Sioux Falls. “You’re here, too?”

“You think I like seeing your face?” Bobby shoots back. “And finding a parking spot close to here is damn near impossible.” He drops to the nearest chair, a hand over his chest as he catches his breath. “Stupid elevator’s broken, too.”

Okay, Dean needs some liquid courage to get him through this morning. And it’s not even—he checks his watch… Shit, it’s already noon. Well, even better, then. He pours himself a cup of hot coffee and adds a hearty dose of whiskey to it. 

His whole body relaxes at the first sip, something inside him coming loose. Ah, yes. By the time this cup is empty, he’ll be pleasantly numb and all the voices in the back of his head will have shut up again. Just like he wanted.

“Jesus,” Sam says and snatches the cup right out of Dean’s hand. “You drink in the morning now, too?”

Dean shrugs and grabs the bottle to drink straight from it. “It’s happy hour somewhere.” 

Bobby and Sam exchange a look.

“Dean, put the bottle down,” Bobby says. There’s no room for negotiation in his voice. 

Dean pouts but complies. The bottle will still be here after they’re gone. 

Sam leans against the kitchen island, head hanging. He takes a breath. “You can’t go on like this.” He tilts his head up to meet Dean’s eye. “We can’t let you live like this.”

Dean narrows his eyes at them. His palms are tingling where he presses them against the countertop, shoulders rising in warning. He stares straight at Sam. “What’s this? An intervention? Is that why you both made the trip out here?”

“Someone has to stop you before you destroy yourself, Dean,” Sam says, jaw tight.

“Before you drink yourself to an early grave,” Bobby adds, raising an eyebrow.

“An early grave,” Dean repeats. He scoffs. He reaches for the cup of coffee Sam snatched out of his hands. “You two done? Because I have something to get back to.”

He deliberately holds eye contact as he downs a big gulp.

“No, we’re not done,” Sam says. “This is the end. No more drinking for you.”

“Why do you even care?” Dean asks. “Don’t you have better things to do, back home?”

“I care about you,” Sam says, yells. “You drink yourself stupid every night. You barely get out of the house or answer the phone. You've been stuck in a self-destructive, downward spiral and you refuse to see it. So, that’s it. No more drinking for you, and alcohol is banned from the house."

Dean downs another gulp from his cup. His stomach lurches at the onslaught, making Dean think that maybe he should have grabbed a slice of toast first, but Sam and Bobby are getting on his nerves. It's better this way. 

"Those are some big words for this early in the morning, big guy," he says, putting on his best asshole attitude. That ought to annoy them enough to get out of his hair. “Who’s gonna reinforce all that, huh? You, from Cali?” He turns to Bobby, lips pulling up in a smirk he knows is insufferable. “Or you, from Sioux Falls?”

His words don’t have the effect he was going for. 

Bobby and Sam exchange a look, one Dean can’t decipher. He doesn’t like it one bit.

“We’re giving you a choice,” Sam says, voice even and devoid of emotion, like he’s rehearsed this part. Knowing him, he probably has. “I’ve found some great programs, but I do agree that you need someone to support you through this. Jess and I talked about it, and we can find a bigger apartment if you want to move in with us.”

“Or, your room in my house is always waiting for ya,” Bobby adds. 

“What?” Dean asks after a moment of stunned silence. “You… you want me to come live with one of you guys? What, you think I’m a dog, or something?”

“No, we think you need help,” Sam says, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “I mean, there’s nothing keeping you here anymore. You’re stuck inside this filthy apartment, paying rent you can’t afford without a job, and for what?”

“You know very well why I moved into this apartment,” Dean says, anger simmering under his skin, dangerously close to burning through and exploding.

“Dad’s dead, Dean!” Sam yells. 

Bobby stares between them, like he’s happy to step back and let the brothers fight it out. Well, Dean’s more than happy to.

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean slams the cup on the counter, smashing it. Coffee and whiskey splatter over the sticky surface, over him, all over the floor. It doesn’t make much of a difference to him. “In case you forgot, I was the one who found him.”

“I know,” Sam snarls. “You won’t let me forget it. It’s like, I don’t know, it’s like you blame me for not being here when it happened.”

“Well you should have been! Because he needed help and clearly, I was not enough.” He won’t let Sam look down on Dean for the choices he made. For his sacrifices. He gave up  _ everything _ , and what did he have to show for it? A big pile of crap, that’s what. “I was there, every single day. I moved in, I worked fewer hours to look after him,I took him to the doctors, I took him to PT, I made sure he took his meds, and it still wasn’t enough. I still let him die.”

No, wait.

_ Shit. _

That’s not what he wanted to say. He has to take it back, he has to find a way to fix this, except he’s choking on the words, acid rising up his throat, and Sam’s eyes are already widening in realization.

Shit. It’s too late now.

“Dean, do you seriously…” Sam glances at Bobby who takes off his hat to push his hair back with a jerky movement. “Do you seriously blame yourself for Dad?”

“Son,” Bobby says, tone soft, and fucking hell, Dean doesn’t need his pity. “There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. You couldn’t have known he’d have a seizure while you were out.”

“But I could have been there,” Dean shouts. He drops his head. He can’t face them right now, he can’t have them looking at him like  _ this. _ “I  _ should  _ have been there. Maybe if I had, it wouldn’t have been too late, and—and—maybe...”

He shakes his head. His eyes are burning, and he’s not sure how, except everything has gotten kind of blurry around him, and his chest is too tight. Too tight. He can barely breathe. He opens his mouth to gasp for air, and all it comes out as is a broken sob. 

_ There’s blood on the edge of the sink. _

No wait, that’s not real. That’s not happening, not again.

_ Sirens wail in the distance. John’s glassy eyes stare up at him, and Dean cradles his head in his arms,  _ except it’s not happening, it’s not, Dean’s not in the bathroom, it’s not happening, it’s been two months since it happened and, and,  _ and he has blood on his hands. John’s blood, it’s— sirens and blood and doctors and the it’s all his fault, all his fault  _ and the drinking was supposed to make it go away, it was supposed to, supposed to— 

Dean collapses. Slowly. First, he hunches, then he doubles over, drops his head. Finally, his knees give out. 

There are hands on him, supporting him, holding him up.

Dean can’t see. He still can’t breathe. All he can do is hold on.

“I’m glad you agreed to this,” Sam says, taking the bag out of the trunk and walking around the car to meet Dean at the entrance of what’s going to be his home for the next ninety days. “That panic attack… you had us really worried for a moment there, Dean, but I’m glad you’re doing this.”

Dean wants to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. He feels empty inside. Hollow, somehow. Tired. Like there’s nothing left. It’s been a couple of days since he packed his stuff and drove with Sammy to Bobby’s house to prepare for this. Almost a week since he’s had a drink.

God, does he need one now.

He’s almost tempted to steal the keys out of Sam’s hand, jump into the Impala and drive to the nearest liquor store and forget all about the detox program, and the moving, and the twelve-step brochures that seem to turn up everywhere he looks, but…

But Sam claps a hand on his shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze and leads the way inside. It’s too late to steal the keys now. 

Sweaty hands shoved in his pockets, Dean drags his too-heavy feet up the stairs. Bobby’s already inside—pretending he’s Sammy 2.0 and not a grumpy old recluse—here to meet every single member of the staff. Well, either hell froze over, or Dean really screwed up this time.

He’s going to bet on the latter. 

There’s a tour, and a list of  _ activities _ —Dean’s gagging internally just at the sight of ‘group therapy’—a lot of rules, and even more restrictions, enough that Dean starts zoning out when the perky blonde reaches number eighteen. 

But he promised he’s going to do this, and he is. He’s going to try. 

“So they have family therapy once a week, and Bobby will be coming to those with you, but I’ll talk to the doctor and see if we can set up a Skype session so I can also be there,” Sam says, and Dean’s not sure which he finds more horrifying, that he and  _ Bobby  _ will have to actually  _ talk _ —without passive aggressive jabs to smooth the way between them—or that Sam will be watching it through  _ Skype, _ of all things.

God, he really,  _ really _ needs that drink.

“Now, I did my research,” Sam says, because, of-fucking-course he did research, “and the most important thing is to not lie. Okay? You can’t bullshit your way out of this, Dean.”

He looks straight at Dean, mouth pursed, and brows drawn together like he’s talking to a five-year-old, and Dean’s already tired. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I got that the first ten times you told me. Don’t worry, I said I’m going to do this, didn’t I?” And damn, maybe he’s itching to run away right now, but he’s not going to let them down. Not them, too. He’s let enough people down already.

“Looks like we gotta go,” Bobby says, coming over with a handful of pamphlets in his hands, which Dean is pretty sure are meant for the patients, not their families. Bobby shoves them in his back pocket all the same, then offers his hand to Dean, palm up. “Gimme your phone.”

Dean blinks at him. 

“Come on, give it to me.”

Dean reaches for his pocket, laying a protective hand over it. “No.”

“Well, I’m sorry, princess, but no phones are allowed on the premises, so don’t get your panties in a twist,” Bobby grumbles, hand insistent under Dean’s nose.

He promised he’s going to do this, Dean reminds himself. Reluctantly, he hands his phone over.  Somehow, it feels like he just signed himself up for voluntary jail time.

“I’ll stay with Bobby for a week, so I’ll come visit with him,” Sam promises. “And after I go home we’ll figure out another way to talk, okay?”

“Sammy, you worry too much,” Dean says even though he’s sure he’s about to piss himself.

“Gotta go,” Bobby repeats, pulling Sam away by the elbow. 

“Dean? Come on, let’s get you settled in your room,” a perky woman tells Dean, waving him over, and Dean’s stuck between her and watching his family walk away.

It’s going to feel a lot longer than three months, of that he’s sure.

As nervous as Dean was when he first set foot in the clinic, he hadn’t expected how nervous he’d be, now that he has to leave. 

He grabs his bag and follows Bobby outside mechanically. The sun hits his face and he recoils. Just as he is about to walk down the stairs, he hesitates. The world feels too large, all of a sudden, and he is too small. 

He hasn’t had a drink in ninety days, but so far, he hadn’t had the opportunity to, either. It’s going to be the complete opposite out here. For all the discussions and plans and mantras he’s repeated until they come as naturally to him as breathing, he’s not sure how he’s going to make it through the day, let alone the week, month, or year. If he’s going to end up back here in a matter of months, then he might as well just stay here.

Or maybe he shouldn’t have come here at all, a small part of his brain offers, crawling out of its darkest parts, but Dean quickly shakes that thought away. Bobby is waiting for him inside his truck, and Dean can’t stall any longer. 

Here he goes. 

He takes a deep breath and takes the first step of what, hopefully, is the rest of his sober life. 

Not so bad yet, but Dean’s stomach lurches at the thought of what will happen when his inner demons start appearing again. 

The silence is charged inside the car. Dean stares out of the windshield, ignoring the side-glances Bobby keeps shooting his way. 

Bobby clears his throat. “Ya know, I don’t expect you to come to work first thing tomorrow. You can get a couple of weeks to settle in, or start with a few hours at the garage before working your way up to full time, or you can—”

“Bobby!” Dean cuts him off with a glare. Honestly, he’d rather deal with Bobby’s usual tight-lipped, non-sentimental avoidance of anything emotional than this over-sensitive crap Sammy has clearly filled Bobby’s brain with in the past 3 months.

He’s not made of glass, he’s not going to break.

Probably.

They go back to awkward silence. 

It’s suffocating.

Finally, needing an excuse to break it, Dean says, “So, did you call Sam yet?”

Bobby glances in his way. “No, not yet. Figured you might want to do that yourself.”

“Right,” Dean says. Well, he’s gonna have to deal with Sam at some point; he might as well get it over with. “Did you bring my phone with you?”

“I did. It’s in the glovebox,” Bobby answers, but something in his voice sounds hesitant. 

Dean retrieves his phone anyway, eyeing him with suspicion.

Bobby shakes his head, lips pressed together with enough force they’ve turned white. “Just… I gotta tell you something first.”

Dean waits.

“There’s a message in there,” Bobby begins, and he’s already defensive. “Now, I didn’t wanna hide it from you, but Sam said that you were in a, a, a  _ delicate _ space or whatever—”

Dean opens the phone and goes to his messaging app without waiting for Bobby to finish. He immediately feels like he’s been punched in the throat.

_Hello, Dean. If you have the time, I’d like to meet up for coffee_ _sometime this week. How about this Friday? We can meet at the_ Duke’s _around seven._

“I can’t believe this!” Dean roars, stalking around the dining table. “Cas sent me a message a whole fucking month ago, and you only think to tell me now?”

“It was your brother’s idea,” Bobby says, hands on the table, palms down, mouth curled in an unhappy grimace. “He thought you had enough shit to deal with, and ya know what? I agree with him.”

“It’s Cas!”

“I know! That’s why I didn’t tell you.” Bobby’s shoulders rise and fall with his breath. “Don’t tell me that just hearing that name wouldn’t have set you back several steps.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean says.

“Oh yeah? Because it seems to me, even now, you’re on the verge of a breakdown,” Bobby says, waving in his direction. “If I’d told you when that message arrived, you’d have given up everything you worked hard for to run down to him, crying.”

“Maybe I should have,” Dean says, choking on the unfairness of it all. Of Cas reaching out at the worst possible time, of Dean not seeing it until a month later, of Bobby and Sam taking the choice away from him, of him creating this mess in the first place. 

Of Bobby being right. 

“Oh yeah? And what if you’d gone to him? What if you didn’t hear what you wanted? What would you have done then? Crawl to the first bar in sight, that’s what you’d have done.” Ah, good old no-nonsense Bobby is back; too bad Dean doesn’t want to deal with him now.

“It was my choice to make,” Dean says. “And now I’ll never know what he wanted to say, anyway.”

He bangs the kitchen door behind him with enough force that something crashes to the floor and breaks inside the house. Bobby curses, but Dean’s already walking away from the porch and he doesn’t wait to see if he’ll follow.

Bobby doesn’t.

He lets Dean stew in his own juices, white-knuckled grip around his phone. 

Dean makes the decision on a whim.

By the time Bobby runs outside, alerted by the Impala’s roar as she wakes up after what is probably months of barely any use, Dean’s already driving out of the lot. 

The clouds are heavy above him, the sky dark. It’ll be night by the time he makes it to Kansas, but damn him if that’s going to stop him. 

There’s something different. Dean’s not sure what it is, but his old neighborhood feels foreign and hostile as he parks close to his— _ Cas’  _ apartment. Maybe it’s the way the streetlights illuminate everything, the way the moonlight is obscured by the raging storm. 

The pavements glimmer, white, blue and yellow light reflected there, broken up by the constant patter of the rain. 

The window on the third floor is dark.

It’s Saturday, Dean realizes, sliding down behind the wheel. Maybe Cas isn’t home right now. Gabe has probably dragged him to some bar, to drink the night away. 

He wonders if he should call.  Or maybe he should text.

Dean mulls that thought over. He should wait. It’s just him, the endless stretch of night around him, and the rumble of rain against the roof of the Impala. He has all the time in the world. Cas has waited for so long, Dean can wait a couple of hours. 

The words come to his mind unbidden. The apology, the explanation, everything he’s kept deep inside him for so long. It falls neatly into place in his mind, a sense of calm settling over him. He can do this. He’s finally going to come clean to Cas about everything.

He hears him before he sees him. 

His deep voice, the loud rumble of his laughter. It zaps through Dean like electricity, leaving him dizzy. 

It’s Cas. It has to be.

He has his hand on the handle, eyes searching the road. 

Two figures emerge from behind the cars parked across from where Dean is. The wide breadth of Cas’ shoulders is the first thing Dean notices, then it’s his arms, wrapped protectively around someone. Then it’s his face, blurred by the droplets running down the window but doing little to hide the softness of his eyes, the lovely curve of his lips as he smiles at the man he’s with beneath the streetlight. 

Dean sits there, frozen. Suspended in time. Something inside him squeezes and tightens and  _ hurts. _

He wants to open the door, call for Cas.  _ Look at me, _ he wants to say.  _ I’m here, Cas, look at me.  _

The world keeps going around him, but the space inside the Impala constricts. It’s like Dean’s in a separate place, one which misses one of the earth’s spins. Time stops for Dean, but not for Cas.

Cas runs past him without even looking in Dean’s direction. He doesn’t notice. He doesn’t bother. He laughs with the dark-haired man, rushing up the stairs of his building. They’re drenched, and out of breath, and happy. 

So  _ fucking _ happy. 

Dean presses his palm against the window. 

This is his last chance. 

_ Look at me. Look at me, babe. I’m here. _

He sees the door opening. He sees the other man playfully push Cas aside, to step inside first. 

Dean’s breath makes the window fog as he drops his forehead against it, nose pressing against the cold glass. 

_ Look at me! _

When he drags his fingers through the fog to see again, Cas is gone. The door is closed.

The light in the window on the third floor is turned on. 

Something inside Dean shatters. 

He takes a shaky breath, and he waits. The other man doesn’t appear at the door again. It’s just Dean in the car, the sky pouring its rage down on earth, and Cas with someone else and so far away from Dean. 

_ Maybe it’s for the best, _ Dean tells himself.  _ He looked so happy. Happier than he ever was with you. You were a burden.  _

Dean’s hand slides down from the window. It falls to his side lifelessly. He’s shaking. Like clockwork, his mind goes straight to finding a bottle to drown himself in. 

His phone rings next to him, and he turns to look at it through teary eyes. 

Sammy. 

Of course. 

Took him long enough.

Dean falls back against his seat and lets the pain wash over him. Rides the waves, unable to fight them. He holds on. He digs his nails into his palms, and he talks himself out of finding the nearest bar like Bobby had said. 

He won’t do it. 

He promised he wouldn’t let them down, and he won’t. He won’t prove Bobby right. 

He sits there, waiting the storm out. Willing the sky to give him its worst, to turn the night into a curtain behind which he can hide, so that even if Cas looks out his window, he won't see him there. So that he won’t see Dean hiding. He won’t see this one last moment of lamenting. 

Dean sits and lets the tears run freely, knowing he’ll never talk about this with anyone. He’ll keep some of his dignity, even if he doesn’t have any at the moment. 

The rain consumes him.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Bobby snaps on the table light next to him, a scowl on his face. He’s every pissed-off-parent cliché Dean can think of, and then some.

The sun is slowly rising in the distance outside the window, but it’s still late. Or early. Dean can’t really keep track of time, anymore. Driving down to KC and then back has left him exhausted—but, surprisingly, not dead. Seeing Cas has left him drained. He can’t be bothered with anything except hiding in his bed for the rest of his life.

Bobby, though, has other plans. “Tip toeing around you clearly hasn’t done you any favors,” he growls. “I’m done coddling you.” He stands up, throwing a work uniform to Dean, hitting him across the chest. As he climbs the stairs, he says, “We have to be at the garage in two hours. Better not make me wait.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says to no one. 

He is numb. But at least he’ll have something to get his mind off of everything. Working is better than sitting around, and working on cars is better than therapy. 

He drags his feet up the stairs, tucking any memories and desires he has left into a small box and burying it deep inside him. 

It’s time to let it go.


	17. Chapter 17

_ October 2019 _ _  
_ _ Five Days Missing _

For the record, Castiel still thinks being here is a waste of time, but he knows neither of them will be getting any rest tonight until they’ve searched this place top to bottom. So, he just goes with it. There was nothing interesting in the loft, and there doesn’t seem to be anything interesting up here, either. Just a lot of dust and the occasional mice running around. There’s a window on the wall across from him, right above where he thinks the main door is. Just opposite that, in the back wall, is a tall door with a hook above it and a platform right outside. He guesses this is how they got things onto the upper floor. 

Dean hasn’t called him back down yet, so Castiel figures this little excursion really is a bust, but he has to do his job right. He steps out on the platform, shining his light below only to find a tall stack of dried hay and lots of overgrown shrubs. The image of neglect. No wonder this place made a perfect hang out spot for troubled teens to get drunk.

Castiel steps back inside and sweeps his light around the room one last time. Still nothing. He’d better get down there and tell Dean that it’s time they left. 

A loud yell stops him. Castiel stands in the middle of the attic, ears straining, and listens. There are voices coming from downstairs, and one of them sounds like Dean. The other one he can’t recognize, but he knows it’s bad news. It could only be the killer. 

He needs a weapon, he realizes, and whips around, eyes searching the room for anything useful. 

A loud noise draws his attention. 

Dean yells something, and Castiel forgets all about the weapon as he runs across the room and climbs the stairs down to the loft. And then he smells it. 

The smoke. 

The gasoline. 

The suffocating, hot fumes of a fire. 

Caution thrown to the wind along with his flashlight, Castiel runs to the ladder, but it’s too late. Flames break through the opening, they lick their way across the floor, the walls. Everything they touch is immediately lost to their blazing rage. 

He’s trapped. 

He grabs the edge of his coat and brings it over his mouth in an effort to keep the smoke out of his lungs. He steps back towards the attic stairs and away from the fire. 

The whole lower level of the barn has surrendered to the flames. Did Dean manage to escape? Did he get out before the fire spread far enough to trap him? There’s a window on the wall, but Castiel can only see the empty field stretching out in the night through it. No sign of Dean, no headlights to indicate that he is safe and sound. 

Castiel can’t leave before he’s sure Dean is safe, he can’t— 

“Cas!” Dean’s voice is loud and desperate over the sizzling roar of the fire. 

Where the hell…? 

Castiel’s eyes zero in on the rope dangling beyond the loft’s rail, which is now moving. Sure enough, just a few seconds later Dean’s head appears over the railing.

“Cas! There you are.”

“Dean!” 

Castiel runs to him, leaning over the railing to grab Dean and pull him, help him up and on the loft, away from the flames growing taller and taller underneath him, tall enough to lick the soles of his boots.

They fall to the floor on a heap of limbs and choked coughs, but at least they’re together now.

Wait. No!

Castiel freezes, even as Dean is already fighting to stand up, grabbing at his hands and trying to pull him along. 

“Come on, Cas, get up. We can’t stay here.”

“What are you doing here?” Castiel asks, his stomach sinking. “Why didn’t you get away? Dean, why did you come back?”

“I wasn’t going to leave you here, was I?” Dean asks, shaking Castiel’s shoulders. His hold tightens, and he pushes at Castiel, shoving him to the stairs. “Come on, we don’t have time. I don’t know how long it will take until the barrels get hot enough for the gasoline to explode, but we have to find a way out of here before that.” 

Stupid. Dean’s so stupid. A stupid, self-sacrificing idiot, and Castiel doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this devotion, and Dean certainly doesn’t deserve to die because of him. 

Dean is not going to die, Castiel decides, a new-found strength rushing through him. Even if it’s the last thing he does, he will find a way to get Dean out of here. 

They stumble up the stairs, and the very air around them is boiling. Castiel’s almost surprised when they make it to the attic and find it empty and dark. He’d expected the fire to have reached this level by now, too, with the speed it’s spreading.

Dean’s the first one to the top, and he races to the window above the main door, but Castiel knows it’s futile. It’s too high for them to climb down from there. But there is another way, he realizes. 

“Dean, over here,” he shouts, running to the door and the platform above the haystack. “We can jump from here.”

Dean takes a single step out and goes pale. He gulps, eyes deliberately not looking under him. “No way. It’s too high, Cas, I can’t do it.”

Castiel grabs his arms, tries to pull him along, but the only thing he manages is to make Dean plant his feet even more stubbornly on the flooring. “Dean, we don’t have a choice. Either we jump, or we burn alive.”

“I can’t, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean says, shaking his head. He’s trembling, shaking, and Castiel recognizes the signs from the few times they’d flown on an airplane. That one time they were up on a rooftop and Dean walked too close to the edge. He’s panicking, frozen with fear, and he can’t think straight. ‘I’m scared of heights,’ Dean had told him on their third date, while they were looking at the Ferris wheel in a Christmas market. They couldn’t be further away from that moment now.

“Dean, please. I know you’re scared but you have to trust me,” he pleads, desperation spilling out of his every pore. The air is becoming heavier and heavier around them, the barn creaking below them as the flames weaken it, and he knows they are running out of time. Soon the barrels under them will explode and they will go up in a fiery ball along with this whole barn.

Dean has tears in his eyes. He brings shaky hands to cup Castiel’s face. “I can’t do it. But you have to. Just jump and save yourself.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Castiel protests, drawing closer to Dean, trying to crowd him enough so that the only thing Dean sees is him and not the looming darkness underneath them.

“You’re crazy. You have to go now, before it’s too late.”

“No, Dean, I’m not going anywhere without you. Either we jump together, or we die together.”

“Why are you doing this?” Dean shouts, but he only clutches at Castiel tighter. “Why do you bother with a deadbeat like me? I ruined you. I’m nothing but a shitload of baggage that only ever held you back. Just go and save yourself.”

Castiel wants to cry. He wants to tear his hair out, but most of all he wants to kiss Dean hard enough to make him shut up. Stupid, self-sacrificing asshole, fighting Castiel to the very end. “You’re the most pigheaded, stubborn, unreasonable person I’ve ever met,” he growls right into Dean’s personal space. “You infuriate me, and yes, you’ve hurt me more than anyone else in my life, but I won’t let you die here, you hear me?” He’s screaming now, his throat raw and parched, but he doesn’t care. He only cares about Dean and everything he’s kept bottled up the past few days that he still hasn’t found the time to tell him.

“I’m not leaving without you, and I’m not letting you die either. Not before I’ve apologized for being a self-absorbed asshole, for not being there for you when you needed me the most and not even realizing it until a couple of days ago. I won’t let you die until I’ve had the time to apologize and tell you that I love you.”

“What?” Dean’s mouth drops open, his body locking in place.

“I love you,” Castiel says again, pressing his forehead against Dean’s, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. “So, don’t make me stay here and die with you, okay?”

Castiel takes a step back, pulling Dean along with him, their embrace tight enough to not leave any space between them. He pulls them towards the edge, and Dean goes with him, too shocked to protest. 

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel whispers one final time in the air between them, and he closes his eyes. 

Together, they fall. 

It lasts less than a second, though it feels like a lifetime for Castiel. They hit the haystack on their sides, the dried grass softening their fall even as it collapses under their combined weight. They tumble to the ground, bruised and hurt, but they’re alive, and Castiel can’t ask for more than that. 

He pulls Dean to his feet, or maybe Dean pulls Castiel to his feet, it’s hard to tell when they’re both clutching at each other desperately and fighting to get off the ground as fast as possible. They run around the barn, the heat reaching them even through the one side that is still intact and Castiel can feel that the countdown has already started. They’re almost out of time.

They make it into the car just as the first explosions begin, and Dean almost drives off the road in his hurry to get as far away from the blazing mass behind them as possible.

“Wait,” Castiel says, still breathless and vibrating with adrenaline. “Dean, wait, stop.”

“Are you crazy? Why stop?”

“Because we have to call Mills. And someone to deal with the fire. What happened? How did this thing get started?”

Dean’s mouth tightens. A muscle under his jaw clenches. “It was Ruby. She’s the one behind everything. She killed Ava, then did something to Sam, and now she wanted to take care of us.” 

His hold on the steering wheel becomes white-knuckled and Castiel swallows. He doesn’t find it in him to ask Dean what he means about Sam. They pull over and they call Mills.

The night sky is lit up as though the sun had already risen. The sky is painted in the warm orange glow of the flames, then the blackness of the smoke. The road is crowded with firefighters and police cars. There is question after question and an ambulance that arrives, even though both Castiel and Dean insist they are fine. And then there is Mills, speaking hurriedly into her radio.

About an hour later, Mills comes to find them again; Castiel and Dean have been forced to sit with blankets around their shoulders, after they were thoroughly probed and tested in the back of the ambulance. “Alright, I’ve got everyone out there looking for Ruby. You said she left in a car?” 

“I didn’t see it, I only heard its engine while she was driving away,” Dean admits.

“Right, so we don’t have a description, then. It doesn’t matter, we’ll block all the major roads that lead out of town and send her description to nearby departments. She won’t get away.”

“She better not,” Dean says through gritted teeth, and the sheriff sighs.

“You two look awful. Do you need a car to take you back to your motel?”

Dean throws the blanket off his shoulders and stands up. “No, it’s fine. I can drive. Are we free to go?”

“Yes. Please, get out of here.”

They don’t need to be told twice. Castiel follows Dean back to the Impala, the scene around him a blur that he’ll barely remember tomorrow, except for the way adrenaline rushes hot through his veins. He rests his forehead against the window while they drive in silence, watching from the corner of his eye the streetlights shedding light on Dean’s profile every few seconds. 

Now he’s in the dark, hidden behind shadows.

Now he’s golden, the tips of his eyelashes lighter under the yellow glow. 

The silence between them feels thicker than a real wall, and Castiel is not about to try and cut through it. Dean has some issues of his own to deal with, especially after whatever Ruby told him about Sam, so Castiel is left to sink in his thoughts and try to calm his still-rapid heartbeat. He’s getting old. Almost dying is not something he can just shake off and move on from, anymore.

They park in the empty lot of the motel, and Dean kills the engine. 

Neither moves to get out of the car. 

Castiel’s whole body is stiff, like he’s still stuck in the fight-or-flight mentality of being stuck in a burning building. He imagines Dean feels something similar, as well.

Dean lets go of the wheel and sags back against his seat. He avoids meeting Castiel’s eye. “So,” he starts and swallows. “About what you said back there—” 

Castiel snaps. 

One moment he’s sitting in the passenger seat and the next he has a hand in Dean’s hair, a thigh over his lap, and he’s kissing him within an inch of his life. There’s a small part of him that tightens with nerves, fear of rejection, but whatever ragged shreds of self-control he has left evaporate the moment Dean wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer, opens his mouth and lets Castiel in.

It’s hurried and clumsy, hands getting tangled in their haste to uncover as much skin as possible, and Castiel presses down against Dean to feel him through his jeans, hot and firm and just as hard as Castiel. Despite everything that has come between them, despite all the new ways they’ve had to fit their broken pieces together to make it work, they don’t have to fumble through this. They know how to do this.

Dean bites on Castiel’s lower lip, a hand squeezing his ass hard enough to bruise, and a noise forms in the back of Castiel’s throat, raw and desperate. Dean swallows it, thrusting up to meet Castiel when he rocks down. 

The squeeze of fingers on Castiel’s body becomes a push, and they twist together in the cramped space for a confusing moment, until Dean pulls away long enough to say, “In the back. Come on, get in the backseat.”

Castiel doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Desperation ripples through him. He’s still alive, and Dean’s still alive, but his hands are cold, and Castiel almost lost him.

He stumbles over the seat, dragging Dean with him until they land on top of each other in the back, where they finally have the room they need. Dean kisses him roughly, uses his own weight to press him down, to sink on top of him and roll his hips in just the right way to make Castiel gasp into his mouth. 

Castiel is burning, white-hot and urgent, and he can’t get Dean out of his clothes fast enough. It’s endlessly frustrating, how Dean refuses to let go of him long enough to push his jacket off properly, and how he insists on pulling at Castiel’s shirt instead, as though it’ll magically disappear. Lips never parting, they shove aside whatever material they can to touch skin, to feel Dean’s calloused hands run down Castiel’s belly and his fingers dip inside the fabric near Castiel’s hip and pull. 

Castiel gasps Dean’s name against his lips, bucks his hips up uncontrollably, chasing the friction Dean is denying him—for whatever insignificant reason—until Dean presses his palm over the bulge in Castiel’s pants and Castiel moans. He goes pliant, giving himself over to Dean to kiss and bite, and lets him unzip his pants and shove his hand inside, and God, yes, that’s what he needs. 

Dean pumps him slowly, his fist tight and rough around Castiel, and yes, that’s exactly what he needs, he thinks while Dean licks into his mouth.

He drops his head back, giving Dean more space to press quick kisses under his jaw, and he surrenders. He gives himself over completely, for Dean to do whatever he wants. 

To twist and pull. 

To hurt and soothe. 

With the only part of his mind that’s not completely covered in lust-hot fogginess, he orders his hand to move, to stop clutching at Dean desperately. 

Undoing a belt with one hand is harder than he remembers, but then it’s done, and he opens Dean’s zipper and pulls his jeans down. 

Dean is hot and firm in his hands, and so achingly familiar that it’s Castiel who groans, “Shit, Dean,” when he wraps his fingers around his cock. 

Dean makes a desperate noise, hair mussed as he hovers over Castiel with his eyes closed, the tip of his tongue just peeking at the edge of red and slick lips. 

Castiel picks up the pace, his body remembering all the ways to make Dean gasp and groan. 

His other hand slamming against the door behind Castiel, Dean braces himself, hissing as Castiel works him, his own hand on Castiel slowing down. 

“Cas, Cas,” he pants, looking at him from under his lashes, a flush spreading down his neck and under his shirt. 

Castiel pushes up to find his lips and kiss him, bite him before tracing his lips with his tongue, and Dean whimpers. 

“Let me, let me,” he says, batting Castiel’s hand away so that he can sink on top of him, their cocks sliding together and making Castiel see stars. 

Dean wraps his hand around both of them and leans down to capture his lips. It’s not a kiss, it can’t be when all they are capable of is panting against each other, and Castiel can do nothing more than let Dean take over. He twists and rocks for him, tension coiled tightly behind his groin, and he presses as close to Dean as physically possible. 

They rock together, Dean’s hand between them to pump them fast, and he trails kisses down Castiel’s throat until he finds that sweet spot in the curve of his shoulder and he bites down. 

Something inside Castiel breaks, unfurls, and he wraps his arms around Dean. His heart is beating uncontrollably fast, counting down to that one sweet moment where there’s no going back. 

The world explodes behind his eyelids, tipping him over the edge, and it’s only a second later that Dean follows with his own climax. He spills between them with a gasp and Castiel’s name on his lips, then a desperate kiss that lasts almost as long as Castiel can go without taking a breath. 

He turns his head to the side, gulping the air greedily, and he can feel Dean panting against his throat. 

“Jesus,” Dean says, breathless and gorgeous as he pulls himself up to be able to look into Castiel's eyes. Green eyes travel down Castiel’s face and something in his expression softens. “I missed this,” he whispers in the air between them. “I missed you, Cas.”

Bringing a hand up to cup his face, Castiel presses one chaste kiss to his lips. “I missed you, too, Dean.”

“Did you mean it?” Dean asks, letting their foreheads rest together. “What you said back there. Because I get it if you only said it in the heat of the moment, and I—”

“No, Dean,” Castiel says, clutching his face between two palms to force him to open his eyes and look at him. Dean has to understand. “I meant it, of course I did. I love you. I never stopped loving you, never.”

“I love you, too,” Dean says, moving to lie on top of Castiel, and Castiel moves to make space for him, so they’re pressed together, his arms around Dean and Dean’s head under Castiel’s jaw. The Impala is not big enough for two men to cuddle in the back seat, but somehow, they make it work. They’ve had practice. 

Castiel presses his palm against Dean’s chest, feels the uncontrollable beat of his heart, alive and warm and so near him that he has to blink back a few tears. He almost lost him.

“This is so fucked up,” Dean says in the darkness, his nose pressed against Castiel’s throat. “So fucked up. My brother is still missing, and every time I look at you I want to cry, and we just… Shit.”

“Dean, please talk to me,” Castiel says, pressing a kiss in his hair. 

“What do you want me to say?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about John, back then? I would have helped you.”

“I didn’t know how, Cas,” Dean says. His face is hidden. His voice sounds small and weak. “You couldn’t do anything. Dad was… He was a broken man, and I didn’t know how to help him except to give him what he wanted, and what he wanted was me. He wanted me there to take care of him, and he wouldn’t settle for anything else.”

“We would have figured something out.”

“No, we wouldn’t have,” Dean says, and he’s shaking enough that Castiel instinctively holds him tighter in an effort to give him some of his warmth. “We would have been fighting, and every other day I’d get up in the middle of the night and go running to my father. You’d have tried, at first, but then you’d have gotten fed up with all the shit you had to deal with and realized that I’m not worth all the effort.”

“Dean…”

“I just saved you all the trouble by ending things when it was still early.”

“You idiot,” Castiel says through gritted teeth. “You asshole. I would have been there for you. I’m sorry I didn’t realize things were that bad, and I’m sorry I let you go, but Dean…” he fumbles for words. Trying to put the mess of thoughts in his head into line so it makes sense is hard, and he’s not sure he can. He finally settles for, “Dean, I should have seen how you were struggling. I’m sorry I didn’t, and I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could trust me enough to say all that, back then. What happened with John was… I can’t believe you went through it all on your own. You needed help. You still do.”

Dean sniffles and something wet touches Castiel’s collarbone where his shirt has been pushed to the side. “I know. If it wasn’t for Bobby and Sam, I don’t think I’d be here now. I mean, when Dad was alive it was hard, yes, but after he died, I… I was in a really bad place. I don’t know what I would have done if Bobby hadn’t forced me into rehab.”

Castiel shuts his eyes and squeezes Dean harder. Hard enough that he hopes Dean just might, finally, be able to feel like he’s not alone against the world.

“I don’t deserve you,” Dean whispers. “Letting you go back then was the biggest mistake of my life, and I don’t deserve you.”

“We made that mistake together,” Castiel corrects him. His back is already starting to hurt, and he is very distinctly aware of every inch of shirt that is clinging to his body with dried semen.  He makes no move to get up or get more comfortable.  This is the only place he’d like to be, in this moment with Dean. He sighs, rubbing a comforting circle between Dean’s shoulder blades. “And you were never good at judging what you deserve and what you don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says.

“I’m sorry, too,” Castiel says simply. “And I love you.”

For the first time since his brother went missing, Dean breaks down. 

_ Zero Days Missing _ _  
_ _ Saturday Night, 23:59 _

Ruby leaves the car running. She steps towards the wreckage carefully. 

“Sam?” she whispers, circling the car. Shit, it’s completely ruined. Is he…?

She steps closer, trying to peek inside, bracing herself for whatever she’ll find. She can do this, it won’t be the first time she’s seen a dead body. 

But the car is empty. 

Heart beating fast, she whips her head around, trying to make out any sign of movement through the dark. 

“Sam?”

The silence is deafening. Where the hell is he?

She walks around the field for a few minutes, but Sam Winchester is gone. It’s like he disappeared into thin air. 

Shit, that’s not good, Ruby realizes, wrapping her arms around herself. She walks back to the car, and confident that, if Sam was hiding somewhere waiting to attack her, he would have by now, she takes her phone out and uses the flashlight to inspect the car. 

The front window is cracked, and there’s blood running down the broken surface. A lot of blood. If Sam Winchester made it out of that car he was pretty badly hurt. If he’s hiding somewhere out here in the fields, he’s probably not strong enough to make it back to town, she decides, checking the empty fields around her again. Maybe he collapsed somewhere? Nature will take its course and Ruby doesn’t even have to lift a finger. 

But she does need to take care of the evidence.

Shit, Eve is going to kill her if Ruby takes the car back home like this. No, it’ll look suspicious if anyone sees her car looking like that. She has to get rid of it and tell Eve someone stole it. Yes, she’ll get rid of this car in the swamp near here, and then she’ll leave Sam’s car by the bus station. It’ll look like he left town like that, right? Right. 

She goes back to the motel later, and she cleans every sign of struggle she finds. She grabs everything that was in Sam’s bag and shoves it back in. She’ll take that with her to search more thoroughly later. There’s no diary, that she can find, but there is that stupid notebook Sam carried with him everywhere. She’d better hang onto that. 


	18. Chapter 18

_ December 2018 _

The floor is hidden under a rug of garlands and fairy lights, and Castiel curses at himself as he tries to put his tree together. This would be so much easier if he had a spot to step on without being worried about fake pine needles sticking into his toes. When the top piece refuses to slide into the place it should fit into perfectly, he groans, dropping it in his armchair. 

This is stupid. He never decorated trees before… well, before. It doesn’t matter, he’s over that part of his life now, and he’s with Inias, who likes trees, so Castiel will get this tree up properly, even if it’s the last thing he does.

“Honey, I’m pretty sure scowling at the tree won’t force it to get up and decorate itself,” Inias says, leaning against the kitchen door. He has two cups of hot chocolate, no hint of bourbon in them, and Castiel can’t decide if it’s good or not that they’re nothing like Dean’s.

Fuck. He’s not thinking about Dean, he’s not.

His internal monologue clearly doesn’t have any positive effects on his expression, for Inias bursts out laughing, and he tiptoes around the room, humming, “You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch. You’re cuddly as a cactus, you’re as charming as an eel.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Very funny,” he says, though he already feels his face relaxing. 

“Your heart’s an empty hole. Your brain is full of spiders, you’ve got garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch” Inias belts out, passing one of the cups over with a grand gesture. He uses his now free hand to pull Castiel closer, and he presses a kiss behind his ear. “I wouldn’t touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole.”

“You know, things would move along faster if you helped me,” Castiel complains, even as he lets his head fall back to expose the long line of his neck for Inias to follow with his lips.

“You’re saying that what I’m currently doing is not helping?”

“Not with decorating.” 

Castiel can feel Inias’ smile against his skin, then the teasing graze of teeth over his pulse point.

“But I  _ am _ making you feel better.”

Castiel pulls back enough to be able to look Inias in the eyes. Their clear blue is shining with amusement, and Castiel resents himself for still wishing they were green. “You always make me feel better,” he says and feels the truth of his words turn sour in the back of his throat. He shouldn’t need Inias to make him feel better. He should be just fine on his own. 

Unaware of the dark thoughts swimming around in Castiel’s head, Inias grins. “How about I get that tree set up while you find the box with the ornaments, hm? Then you can put up all the lights as haphazardly as you like, and I can deal with separating the big ornaments from the small ones.”

“You’re an angel.” Castiel gives him a quick peck, taking the cup out of his hands to leave it on the coffee table along with his own, and he leaves to find the box. He knows it’s shoved in the back of the guest room closet. He saw it there while he was dragging the tree out, so retrieving it is fairly easy. Almost as easy as Inias finishing setting up the tree, apparently, because his boyfriend already has the top part in its place by the time Castiel returns to the living room.

Inias opens his arms wide, presenting the tree. “Ta-dah.”

“Did you use magic?” Castiel accuses him, narrowing his eyes at the piece he knows didn’t fit just a few seconds ago.

“I have something called patience, unlike  _ someone _ I know. Now, pass me the box, and go wild with those lights.”

Putting up the lights is his favorite part of decorating the tree, especially now that he doesn’t have an OCD freak fussing around and trying to make sure that every single light bulb has exactly the same space between all of its neighbors. Castiel’s freeform, inspired creation is far better, in his opinion. Certainly, a lot less restricting. 

By the time he’s got half of the tree done, he’s used up one string of lights and has two more waiting on the floor. It’s going to be one very glowy tree. 

“Wow, that’s very pretty,” Inias comments from the floor, where he’s sitting cross-legged and sorting the ornaments in different piles according to their size.

“Wait till they’re all up,” Castiel says, glancing in his direction only to find that Inias wasn’t talking about the tree, at all. He’s not even paying any attention to all the work Castiel has done. He’s focused on something small and silver that fits in his right palm.

He holds up the bee ornament for Castiel to see. “Is this handmade?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, feeling his stomach lurch at the sight of it. 

Inias marvels at the details on the body and the wings, tracing a finger over them. “You have a box of cheap plastic balls, and then this? Was it a gift or something?”

“I don’t remember where I got it,” Castiel lies through his teeth, every nerve ending sounding alerts in his body. “Just put it back in the box, it doesn’t fit with our theme.”

“Yeah, because you  _ so obviously _ have a theme going on here.” Stretching his arms out to gesture at the assortment of colorful balls—which range from blue and silver, to green and gold, and everything in between—Inias’ grin stretches wider, and he wiggles his eyebrows. “No offense, babe, but you’re not winning any awards for interior decorating any time soon.”

“It’s called shabby chic, I believe, and that bee is not part of it.” Castiel throws out the first thing that comes to him, a term he’d read in a magazine while waiting at the dentist a few weeks ago. He’s pretty sure what he just said is bullshit, but he’s also pretty sure he’s desperate to make that bee disappear out of his sight. 

“Oh, it’s so cute. You think you know what you’re talking about,” Inias coos, getting up to crowd Castiel against the tree. He’s still grinning when he kisses him, but more importantly, he’s still holding the bee. “I think the word you were looking for is ‘gaudy,’ or maybe ‘kitsch.’”

“If you think you have a better taste, let’s see what you can do with what you have.” Castiel sneaks his hand down Inias’ arm, his fingers lifting goosebumps on their way until he feels Inias shiver against him. Catching his eye and holding it, Castiel takes the opportunity, now that Inias is distracted, and snatches the bee right out of his hand. “But this certainly doesn’t fit with the rest of them.”

Inias huffs, amused. He rolls forward on his toes to kiss the tip of Castiel’s nose before pulling back to inspect what he has to work with. “I hate to admit it, but you’re right. This is enough of a challenge without adding one single rustic element to your ‘theme’.”

“I trust you,” Castiel says, a sense of security settling heavily over him, now that the bee is out of Inias’ sight. Out of sight, out of mind, and as long as it’s out of Inias’ mind, it’s out of Castiel’s, too. 

Hopefully.

He hides the small bee in a shoebox with other stuff he doesn’t feel like looking at very often, before returning to help Inias finish decorating. It takes them about an hour, between breaks to drink their hot chocolate, and Inias singing every Christmas song that comes to his mind, deliberately off-key to annoy Castiel. The end result is beautiful, though. Their tree is a little crooked, but its branches are heavy with ornaments of all sizes and colors that twinkle under the fairy lights. 

It is gaudy and yes, a bit kitschy, and Castiel loves it. He stubbornly pushes away any buzzing thought of that stupid ornament, and he follows Inias around as he puts the final touches around the room: a couple of candles on the dining table, socks hanging from the window sill—Castiel rolls his eyes affectionately at that—and a wreath pinned on the door. Just like that, Castiel’s apartment is ready for Christmas, and they didn’t even make that much of a mess.

They settle on the couch to watch a movie on Netflix, huddling close together under a blanket. Soon, Inias is snoring softly, head resting against Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel lets his cheek rest against the top of Inias’ head. He’ll tease him endlessly tomorrow, but for tonight he’s happy to bask in the quiet moment. The movie is a low murmur, the flashing glow of the screen the only light in the room except for the Christmas tree. It’s the perfect image of domestic bliss. 

So why is his mind stuck on an old shoebox and its contents?

Castiel has rehearsed his speech in his mind a hundred times, and yet his palms are sticky with sweat when Inias answers the door. Meeting in his apartment instead of Castiel’s is a strategic move. Ιt means that Castiel can make his exit at any point, and Inias doesn’t have to face the public after a rejection. 

Breaking up isn’t easy, but Castiel learned from the best, he thinks bitterly, and his stomach twists uncomfortably.

For fuck’s sake, he’s about to break up with a guy, and still, the only thing he can think about is Dean. 

Maybe this is a hidden blessing for Inias. He can do so much better than Castiel. For one, he can certainly find someone who is heart-and-soul committed to their relationship, and Castiel hasn’t been able to do that yet. He still has a few issues of his own to work through, and it’s not fair for Inias to wait for him. 

He says as much to Inias, careful to be vague about any details. It’s the usual ‘ _ it’s not you, it’s me’ _ speech that everyone scoffs at for being generic and complete bullshit, but bullshit is far better than what Castiel got when the love of his life shattered his heart. 

Inias’ face falls. He’s upset, but he doesn’t cry, and Castiel is an awful person for being relieved, but shit, he is. He is so relieved. It’s easier this way. 

“Could I have done anything differently?” is all Inias asks when he walks Castiel to the door for the last time.

“No, you were perfect,” Castiel reassures him.  _ You could have not reminded me of that ornament,  _ his treacherous mind provides, and Castiel is an asshole. Yes, this is definitely for the best. Inias deserves so much better than the broken shell of a man that is Castiel. 

Walking back to his car, Castiel can feel Inias’ eyes glued to his back through his window. He thought he’d feel lighter after going through with this. He only feels worse. 

His second book is selling quite well, or so Billie tells him. It’s hard to make sense of the numbers she keeps throwing at him, but she organized a book signing event for him. It’s definitely a success, judging by the seemingly endless queue of people waiting to get their copy signed by him. 

“Crime and drama sell almost as well as sex,” she tells him, leaning over his shoulder while he takes a water break. 

Truthfully, Castiel is a little overwhelmed. With all his personal drama going on in the last couple of years, he’d barely had time to pay attention to the drama he was writing. He must have done something right, though, because it’s good. Or maybe Billie did something right. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter much. Castiel is drunk on the feeling of success and is already looking forward to finding a case that he can turn into book number three. Maybe this is it. This is what he needs to throw himself into to finally forget. Work is the perfect thing to pour all his frustration into, why didn’t he think of that earlier?

He thanks the girl with the black-rimmed glasses for all her support while he signs both the books she leaves in front of him and compliments the blue highlights in her hair. She gives him a gummy smile and a firm handshake, and Billie waves the next person forward.

Castiel’s stomach drops through his chair to the floor. 

Sam gives him a hesitant smile as he steps forward and holds up a copy of the book with a  _ what can you do? _ shrug. His hair is longer than Castiel remembers, but he’s still as tall as ever and moves awkwardly through the crowd. It’s a miracle Castiel didn’t notice him sooner.

“Hey, long time no see,” Sam says, extending a hand, and Castiel remembers his manners at the last second. 

He closes his gaping mouth, schools his expression to something neutral, and gets up to return the handshake. 

Sam is a good man, he reminds himself. He’s going to be civil about this.

“Hello, Sam. What are you doing here?”

“Um, I’m kind of a fan?” Sam says, hunching his shoulders like he’s feeling as awkward as Castiel. “I mean you knew that already, obviously, but I saw you were holding a book signing around the same time I’d be in town for business, so thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doing. We haven’t seen each other in what? Almost two years?”

“A little less, actually,” Cas says, watching the way Sam’s lips stretch into a crooked smile and it’s so similar to the way Dean smiles that Castiel is almost breathless. He has to take a deliberately deep breath to tamp down the fury. Sam is not to blame, and Castiel is over that anyway, he reminds himself. All that’s left inside him for Dean is anger and nothing else. “But it’s always nice to see you. How are you?”

“I’m good, good,” Sam says.

Billie taps her watch discreetly, and Castiel realizes he’ll have to cut this meeting short. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat,” he says, taking the book Sam holds out, “but if you have time later today we could grab a coffee?”

Sam’s face lights up, like a puppy that has been given a treat. “I’d love that, Cas. You still have my number, right?”

“Of course.”

“Awesome. Just text me when you’re free, and I’ll take a break from work.”

“Will do,” Castiel says, adding a quick personal note over his signature that’s almost the same as the one he’d written on the copy of his first book he’d gifted Sam almost three years ago. 

The coffeeshop they meet at two hours later is only a block away from the bookstore, with floor to ceiling windows and a wall covered in plants.

They catch up on their news, talking mostly about their careers and religiously avoiding the elephant in the room, namely the one person they’ve always had in common. 

“And are you still with Jessica?” Castiel asks, taking a sip from his americano.

“Engaged, actually,” Sam replies, unable to hide the glee in his voice. “I popped the question back in February, and she said yes, so we’re aiming for a winter wedding in November.”

“Sam, that’s wonderful news. Congratulations.”

Castiel is truly happy for him. He’s only met Jessica a handful of times, but she seemed like a nice girl and a good match for Sam. 

“Yeah, I can’t believe how lucky I am,” Sam says, glowing. “We’ll be holding the wedding at her church, and Dean’s going to be my best man—” 

Sam’s sentence is cut off abruptly, like he’s realized he’s made a mistake by bringing up his brother.

Desperate to clear the awkwardness from the atmosphere, Castiel says, “That sounds like a lovely plan. I’m sure Jessica will look beautiful.”

Something softens in Sam’s expression, though the line of his shoulder is still tight. “Yeah. I can’t wait to see her walking down the aisle. Bobby and Rufus have a bet running on how much I’ll cry, or so I’m told.”

“Everyone is allowed to cry on their wedding day.” And Castiel is sure Dean will be crying even more than his baby brother. The thought tastes bitter on his tongue, and he chases it away with his coffee. But now that his mind has gone there, it’s hard to think of anything else. Staring at the table, Castiel clears his throat. “Dean must be proud.”

There’s caution in Sam’s expression as he tries to weigh Castiel. “He is,” he says carefully. “Honestly, he’s been a big help. I didn’t expect him to put in so much time and effort, what with taking over Bobby’s garage and all.”

That catches Castiel by surprise, and before he can stop himself, he asks, “Dean’s working at the garage now?”

A blush appears on Sam’s face. Clearly this wasn’t something he wanted to share. “Yeah, he’s been working there for more than a year, and Bobby’s thinking of retiring. Um, Jessica and I are preparing to move out there, actually, to be closer to them. It’s, you know...” he trails off, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

The friendly atmosphere around them is dissolved, leaving them to sit in awkward silence. It’s exactly what Castiel feared would happen, from the moment he saw Sam at the bookstore, made worse by the fact that it was his prying that brought them to this point. He flushes with embarrassment, angry at both himself and Dean. Mostly Dean.

He thinks that it’s best if he doesn’t tell Sam that he knows Dean was fired from his old job. It will only make things more awkward between them. 

“I’m thinking of writing another book,” he says instead, steering the conversation to safer waters. “I know that Billie expects me to find a new case sometime before the new year, but I’d also like to write something original, at some point. A book that’s all fiction and all mine.”

“It’s a great idea,” Sam tells him, some of the tension between them easing its hold. At least now it’s not thick enough to pound his fist on. 

“I don’t know if it’s going to work out, I’ve never tried it. Maybe I should look into some writing seminars first.”

“You’re a great writer, Cas,” Sam reassures him, and his words feel genuine. “I mean if you want to do the seminar go for it, but I think you can pull this book off even without it.”

“It’s going to take up a lot of my time,” Castiel says. “But I have a lot of free time these days, so I don’t see why not.”

“Oh, won’t your boyfriend mind?” Sam winces almost immediately. “I’m sorry, uh, a friend saw you out on a date. I mean they assumed it was a date,” he says carefully, avoiding meeting Castiel’s eye.

Castiel sighs. It seems that just like he has his way of finding out about Dean’s life, so does Dean. Assuming Sam told Dean about Inias of course, and—No, no. Castiel won’t do this. 

He doesn’t care about Dean, or what he knows about Castiel’s life. He doesn’t.

So, when he says, “Inias and I broke up a while ago, actually,” it’s only to justify the next part of his sentence which is, “I want to focus on my career, at this point. I don’t have time for dating.”

“I’m sorry,” is all Sam offers, before changing the topic to his own career and the new job he has lined up at a very prestigious law firm. It’s smooth sailing after that, since talking about their jobs is a safe topic that can’t be steered towards any dangerous subjects. 

When it comes time to go, Sam insists on paying the bill, no matter how much Castiel protests. 

“You can get the next one,” he says. “If you’d like to do this again, that is.”

“Of course, Sam. And not just because I owe you one.” Castiel has missed Sam, that much he can admit to himself. Despite all the bad memories that seeing him brings, the two of them used to be good friends, back in the day, and he feels it would be a shame to part on bad terms again. Coffee from time to time is harmless, and there’s no need for either of them to bring up any unpleasant topics. He pointedly does not think of Dean Winchester at that moment.

Sam smiles. “Alright, I’ll be in touch then.”

Cas doesn’t blame Sam when he doesn’t reach out again. They hadn’t made any solid plans, anyway, and the reason might be as simple as he’s busy with the wedding or moving. 

Or  _ someone  _ found out that Sam and Castiel had coffee and had forbidden him to see Castiel again. 

Castiel wouldn’t be surprised.

He returns home after a long day interviewing a police officer about a body they’d found mutilated at a park, and he throws himself on the couch, exhausted. Scrolling through Facebook is supposed to help him relax, but it has the opposite effect. 

When he reaches the article, his stomach twists into a painful knot, and he almost drops his phone.

_ Heartbreaking Accident: Woman dead in car crash a few months before her wedding,  _ the title says, and right under it, a very beautiful, very familiar blonde smiles for the camera. 

A hand over his eyes, Castiel tries to stomach the news. He thinks of Sam’s happiness just talking about Jess, and he thinks about the weekend he spent with her all those years ago. 

He thinks of calling Sam.

He doesn’t.


	19. Chapter 19

_ October 2019 _ _  
_ _ Six Days Missing _

Dean is drifting. It’s not exactly sleeping, but it’s far better than the nightmares that have plagued him in the last few days. Now he’s relaxed, soaring somewhere above his body, mind empty except for listening to the heartbeat pressed behind him. Cas is sleeping, too, his soft snoring keeping Dean grounded in a weird, nostalgic way. 

He feels guilty for enjoying this moment when his brother is still missing, and anything could have happened to him, but Dean has spent two years denying himself this, and now he’s basking in every second of it like a dying man gulping down water in the desert. He can’t control it, he just goes with it. 

Last night, he had let Cas take him back to the motel and wash the grime and ash off him, and then he let him tuck him into bed before slipping under the covers himself. He let Castiel hold him while the exhaustion took over, threading their fingers together, holding them close to his chest.

“You know, I came to see you,” he said last night. 

Cas stirred, anticipation filling the silence between them.

“After I got out, I came to see you,” Dean clarified. “But it was already too late.”

“Go to sleep, Dean,” Cas murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck.

Dean let Cas’ breath lull him into sleep.

Now, he lets Cas sleep for just a bit longer. It’s not like there’s anything left for them to do. They’ve cracked the case and alerted Sheriff Mills. All they can do is wait and hope for the best.

The day is in no hurry to begin, the sun slow in its climb up the sky. Dean watches as the shadows around the room move and change shapes, and he waits.

Cas stirs awake, his hold on Dean tightening, and then he nuzzles his face on the nape of Dean’s neck.

“Good morning,” Dean murmurs, well-aware that just because Cas is conscious now, it doesn’t mean he’s ready to be fully awake yet.

Cas lifts himself off the pillow to blearily gaze at Dean, his dark hair sticking up like a bird’s nest. “Morning. How long have you been awake?”

“About an hour, I think,” Dean says, rolling around so they’re facing each other. Cas’ arm is still a solid weight over his waist. 

Uncertainty crosses Cas’ features as he gazes at Dean, the last remnants of sleep blinked away. He swallows. “I know you’re not in the best headspace right now, but can we talk?”

“Crying my heart out last night wasn’t enough talking for you?” Dean shoots back, but there’s no real malice in his voice. He hasn’t been in a good headspace in close to a week, but at least he’s somewhat rested, now. 

“Do you regret it? What happened between us last night?” Cas asks, and though his face is a carefully schooled mask of neutrality, Dean has known him long enough to read the worry in the lines around his eyes. 

“No. Do you?”

“No, Dean, of course not. I’m the one who came onto you without warning. Remember?” His hold on Dean doesn’t waver, but the way his mouth tilts downwards betrays his insecurity. “But, just like you wanted to check that what I said wasn’t because we were about to die, I want to be sure that you still feel the same way this morning.”

“I love you,” Dean says simply, sighing. “I thought we’d already established this. The real question is, what do we do from now on?”

“You mean about us?”

Dean nods, reaching across the space between them to play with the hem of Cas’ shirt. 

“I want to get back together,” Cas says without hesitation. He moves his hand from Dean’s waist only to catch his wrist and hold his hand between them. “If you want to, we can try again.”

A warmth spreads through Dean, a weird sense of peace settling over him. He’s been tormented by the way he ended things with Cas for so long that it’s freeing to know that even if he’s not completely forgiven yet, there’s hope for the future. “I missed us,” he confesses, squeezing Cas’ hand. “But I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Castiel scoots closer until there’s only a breath of air left between them. “And I want you to talk to me. There are a lot of things that we have to work on. Communication, most of all. You need to learn to come to me with your problems, and I need to learn to pay more attention, but, Dean, it’s worth it if I can have you again.”

“It’s not that you weren’t paying attention,” Dean tries to say, only for Cas to shush him.

“You were dealing with so much shit, and I never even noticed. You said you were okay, and I took your word for it even though you clearly weren’t. That’s on me, and it’s as much a problem as you feeling like you have to shoulder all your problems alone. I’m going to do better this time around.”

“You seem determined,” Dean comments, unable to suppress the beginning of a smile. Cas’ lips tilt, too, in response. 

“My determination was the reason we got together in the first place, if you remember.”

“True,” Dean says. “So, we give this another try?”

“We take it slow,” Cas agrees. “And this time around we do it better. Deal?”

“Deal.”

They seal the agreement with a soft kiss, before settling back on their pillows. It would have been the perfect moment, if not for the constant worry in the back of Dean’s mind. It seems he can never be truly happy in his life. Something must always go wrong.

As if on cue, his phone rings, shattering through the sense of peace in the room. Cas is the one to get up, climbing over Dean to answer it.

“Hello?” he says, his tone serious enough that Dean doesn’t have to ask who it is. “Yes, of course. Of course. We are on our way.”

Dean manages to twist under him and catch his eye. His voice is too hopeful for what he likes. “What happened?”

Cas loses no time in throwing the covers off them and getting up. “It was Mills. They’ve found Ruby Doe, and they need us at the station.”

Once again, the police station is overflowing with people. This time there’s a sense of urgency in the atmosphere that makes Dean anxious. There’s only one reason for anyone to be in a hurry, and it has Sam Winchester written all over it. 

“We caught her a few miles south of here,” Mills tells them, walking along a long corridor, a phone in one hand, papers in the other. “She stole Brady Allen’s car, probably figured no one would notice when his whole family was too busy with him being arrested.”

“What did she say?” Dean asks. He’s more than a little dizzy, his insides quivering with worry. They got her. They really got her. 

“She confessed to everything. It’s not like she had a choice, really. We already had your testimonies of how the fire at the barn started.”

“Yes, but what did she say about Sam?”

Mill’s mouth turns into a thin line, but there’s nothing hard in her eyes when she looks between Dean and Cas. “We have a location of where she last saw him. She said he was in an accident, but she didn’t see a body, so he might still be out there. We’re getting a team ready to get out there and search. I have to warn you, though. It’s been almost a week, and we need to be prepared for the worst.”

“Where is it?” Dean demands, his attention having wavered from the moment he heard they know where Sam was last seen alive. Everything fades away. He needs to get to his brother. “We’re going out there.”

The sheriff nods, checking the time on her wristwatch. “Very well. I’ll let the search team know you’ll be joining them. Be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

Ten minutes is too long a time in Dean’s mind. He’s ready to go at a moment’s notice, and if it weren’t for Cas’ steady hand on his shoulder, he might have grabbed that file right out of Mills’ hand and drove out to wherever that bitch abandoned Sam. 

It’s not how things are done, unfortunately. 

It takes way too long for the team to be ready, and even longer before they are allowed to drive out to the location one of the officers points out on the maps they have spread on tables and pinned to boards. It’s a bitter taste of what the families of the victims Dean was investigating were going through back when he was still a detective, and it’s an experience he’d happily lived his life without ever knowing again. But then all the preparations are done, and there’s no holding Dean back. 

He and Cas are the first to arrive. Dean’s not familiar with the area, but the skid marks burned on the road is a good sign as to where to begin searching. 

The place is… it’s a mess.

Dean’s stomach drops to the ground, acid spilling around his feet. He parks right next to the broken guardrails, and steps carefully around the metallic pieces scattered among the torn-up chunks of earth and flattened grass. The car tracks lead a few feet deeper into the field, then back out—Sam driving off the road, Ruby driving away to get rid of it. 

A small part of him wonders how could she do that? How could she have the composure to leave a man out here to die. Drop off the ruined car somewhere no one will find it, then return for Sam’s car.  _ She _ must have taken it to the bus station. She tried to make it look like Sam ran away.

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice small, distant. “There’s broken glass here.” He points somewhere ahead of them, where something glints under the blazing sun. 

Officers and firefighters keep arriving behind them. They scatter across the field. One of the walks to where Cas is pointing and crouches down low. He touches the ground with a gloved hand, squinting up at them. “Dried blood,” he says, and Dean’s stomach lurches. 

_ Sammy. _

“How far do you think he could have walked?” Cas asks, squinting against the midday sun. 

“If he could have made it far, he’d have made it back to the town, right? He has to be somewhere around here. Probably away from the road,” Dean says, fighting tooth and nail for the last ragged shreds of composure he’s left with. 

“So, we go that way,” Cas says, turning his back to the road. “Maybe he was looking for somewhere to hide from Ruby? If he was hurt, he could have collapsed somewhere without being able to move.”

“Sam! Sam, are you out here?” Dean’s voice comes out hoarse. His throat feels raw but damn him if he’s going to give up now. He’ll find Sam even if he has to search this fucking field till his soles are bruised and bloody. “Sam!”

“Wait,” Cas says, putting a hand over his chest to make him pause. He tilts his head to the side, like an owl listening to the sound of its prey. “Do you hear that?”

Dean doesn’t. But then he concentrates, and maybe…

There it is! 

_ Thud, thud, thud, thud. _

It’s not loud, but it’s a steady rhythm. Too steady to be random. 

“Everybody, stop what you’re doing,” he yells, his eyes searching wildly in the area around them. “Where is that noise coming from?”

Two dozen men and women stop moving. They stand and listen until the noise becomes clear, and Dean follows it. There’s a tree trunk fallen just ahead of them, could Sam have hidden in it? Could he...?

Every nerve ending in his body fires up instantly. He’s hyper-aware of every single sound around him as he runs down the field, pulse beating loudly inside his temples.

“Dean, wait.” 

Cas grabs his shoulder and pulls him back just as Dean steps on empty air. Instead of falling, he’s pulled back against Cas’ firm chest. 

They’re standing above the source of the noise, next to a round hole in the ground. Dean drops to his knees, leaning over the dark opening of a well, its edges made of stone, cracked and broken with time. The mouth looks like it used to be covered with planks to protect anyone unsuspecting from falling inside, but there are only a few shattered edges still hammered into the stone now. 

“Sammy? Sammy, are you down there?” 

First the noise becomes louder, and then, “Dean! Dean—that— that you?”

Adrenaline rushes through him, fast and violent, and Dean knows he’s yelling, but he can’t hear it because his ears are ringing. There are people running towards him, and Cas is next to him, using his phone’s flashlight to try and make out anything in the bottom of the well, and that’s how they get the first glimpse of Sam. 

He’s covered in dirt, his skin pale and thin enough to look like paper, but he’s alive, and Dean feels like he could cry. He  _ is  _ crying, he realizes when Cas wraps an arm around him and pulls him into a tight hug. He’s pulled away from the well, despite all his protests, between the sobs that he can’t stop, until he realizes that the firemen that have accompanied them need space to work. Cas holds him through the agonizing half-hour that it takes them to get Sam out of there, pushing his face into the crook of his neck and away from the scene unfolding in front of them.

The crowd parts. 

There’s Sam’s mop of hair, dull and dirty, followed by the rest of him, scratched and bruised and looking tiny. His ankle is swollen and bruised, bent in an unnatural angle. A deep pit forms in Dean’s stomach just at the sight of it, but if it’s just a shattered bone that he has to deal with, then so be it. That’s the least of his problems, currently. 

Dean wants to run to him, wants to hold him and reassure himself that Sam’s okay, he’s alive, they did it, they found him, but Cas’ hold on him is like iron. 

The EMTs have Sam on a gurney in record time, his head lolling to the side. Through half-lidded eyes, Sam finds Dean among the crowd.  His mouth opens and closes, a broken sound all that comes out.  He keeps Dean’s eye and shakes his head.

“What? What is it?” Dean asks. 

Cas keeps an arm around Dean’s shoulders, but he allows him to move as close as the firefighters will let him, to take a better look at his brother. 

“Ava Wil— Ava…” he tries to say as he’s rushed to the ambulance waiting by the road. “Ruby. Her. It was her.”

“I know, Sammy. I know,” Dean tells him, running next to him, legs threatening to give out at any moment. “We got her. We got her, okay? You rest now, you hear me?”

Sam blinks in Dean’s direction. A half-coherent sound comes out of his mouth, but it gets lost in the noise between them. Dean’s not sure Sam even heard him. 

They get Sam inside the ambulance, where he’s hooked to machines and IV bags. 

“One of you can come with us to the hospital,” a woman with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail tells Cas and Dean. Her neon, oversized jacket blocks the view of an EMT bent over Sammy, using a penlight to check his pupil response. “We have to take him to the emergency room as soon as possible, to know the full extent of his condition.”

“Dean, go,” Cas says without hesitation, pushing Dean towards the ambulance. 

“Wait, take this.” Dean twists around as he’s climbing in the back of the van, tossing the Impala keys to Cas’ waiting hands. “Meet us there.”

“Of course.”

Maybe it’s from exhaustion, or maybe it’s something in the liquid that drips directly into Sam’s veins, but the moment the ambulance starts moving, Sam is out cold.

Bile rises in the back of Dean’s throat, but the woman with the ponytail doesn’t look particularly concerned so he figures sleeping can’t be bad for his brother. Despite the bundle of nerves in Dean’s stomach and the constant beeping of the machines Sam is hooked on, that keep reminding him that they are still not out of the woods, the ride to the hospital is short. 

Doctors are already waiting for them at the back entrance reserved for ambulances and emergency cases, and then Sam is rolled into the building while Dean is pushed towards the cafeteria. 

“Someone will be with you shortly,” a short nurse tells him with a reassuring smile, and then she’s off to deal with other patients. 

Cas finds him a few minutes later, pacing the halls near the emergency room. 

“What did they say?” Is the first question out of his mouth, but just one look at Dean is enough to make him add, “How long since the doctors took him in there?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, pausing in the middle of the circle he’s been steadily carving into the floor with his boots. “Five minutes maybe?”

Cas nods, once again far more composed, while Dean is crumbling from the inside out. “So, we wait.”

It’s easy to say it, but not easy to do. The buzzing lights over their heads, together with the intercom calling out names and codes every now and then, bring on a headache that throbs behind his temples like Dave Grohl is playing the most insane drum solo of his career right inside Dean’s head. Closing his eyes doesn’t help, for there’s still the antiseptic scent wafting through the air that brings back memories Dean would rather shove in the back of his mind and never think about again. 

_ Not again. Shit, not again.  _

What does help is when Cas leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and he opens his legs until their knees are pressed together. Dean looks over to catch Castiel’s eye, and the concern he finds there gives him some courage. They’re going to get through this. Together, this time. 

Sam is going to be fine. 

They are going to be fine. 

He chants those two sentences in his head until the words become muddled together and lose all meaning. 

What feels like a lifetime later, the emergency room door opens, and a doctor steps out. “Mr. Winchester?” he asks, scanning the room.

Dean’s at his feet immediately and crosses the room in two long strides. “Me. I’m his brother. How’s Sammy?” Soon Cas is at his side, a warm hand resting on the small of Dean’s back but doing little to calm his frantic heartbeat.

The doctor nods thoughtfully, in the way doctors do and drag things out needlessly. One more reason Dean hates hospitals. “Sam is severely dehydrated and starved, and that’s without counting how close to an advanced hypothermic stage he was when he was brought in. From what we understand, he spent close to a week at the bottom of a well. He’s lucky the well was neither completely dry nor full, otherwise, he might not have been found in time. His ankle is not our top priority right now, but I have to warn you that it will need surgery to be fixed. The process of healing will be a long one. We can’t promise he’ll regain full use of it. Five days without treatment have set his recovery back considerably.”

The doctor goes on spitting out medical term after medical term until Dean feels like his head might explode.

“Is he going to be okay?” he interrupts the doctor finally, his voice a lot harsher than he intended. 

The doctor looks taken aback by Dean’s outburst for a second, but he quickly recovers. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, sometimes I forget myself. I should have said this first: your brother is going to be okay. Now, that doesn’t mean that he’s out of danger right now, but he’s young and strong, and we have high hopes that he’ll be stabilized soon.” He looks between them over his wire glasses. “That was a close one; I won’t sugarcoat things for you. But we’re talking about  _ when _ he’ll get better not  _ if. _ ”

All the air comes rushing out of Dean in a long exhale, taking out all the energy that’d been holding him up for so long. Cas’ left hand on his back suddenly becomes necessary for him to keep standing, just as his right hand comes up to catch his arm. 

“I have papers for you to fill out, Mr. Winchester,” the doctor adds, passing over a folder. “But after that, I suggest you get some rest. Your brother is sedated, and we don’t expect he’ll wake up for the next few hours.”

“I’ll wait,” Dean says, ignoring his wobbly legs. He’s fine. Sitting at the chair here will be enough rest. Thankfully, Cas knows him well enough by now not to protest. He silently takes the papers the doctor is holding out and helps him sit back down. 

Once they have the papers ready for a nurse to take, all they can do is wait. 

Dean’s back is killing him, as is his neck, but he’s spent the last several hours experimenting and this is the most comfortable he’s going to get. Cas fell asleep a while ago, leaning against Dean’s side, some drool escaping his barely open lips. Dean doesn’t think he’s gotten any sleep, but he must have nodded off at some point. 

A nurse gently shakes his shoulder, and he blearily gazes up at her. The moment he takes in her uniform, all fatigue is forgotten, and with the way he sits up, Castiel is jostled awake, too.

“Mr. Winchester is awake now,” she tells them, gesturing for them to follow her. “We’ve moved him to one of the rooms out of the ICU since he’s showing signs of improvement. The IV did its job very well.” She pauses by the closed door, one hand on the handle, and she gives them one final warning. “Just make sure not to tire my patient out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean answers, wishing she’d move out of the way so he could talk with his brother, already. 

She raises an eyebrow at his eagerness. “One by one, please. We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“Go ahead,” Cas says, pushing his hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna find some coffee. Do you need anything? It’s been a while since you ate anything.”

“Whatever you’re having,” Dean tells him, though he’s not distracted enough to forget to send a thankful smile in his direction. 

Sam’s face is almost the same color as the white pillow he’s resting his head on when Dean walks in, the dark circles under his eyes made even more pronounced by the harsh hospital light. For the first time since his growth spurt when he was a teen, Sam looks incredibly small, buried as he is under a mountain of blankets and hot water bags, but he manages to crack a relieved smile when he sees Dean.

“Hey,” he greets weakly. “Looks like I’m going to make it.”

Well, if Sammy is in a good enough mood to joke about this, then that means he’s more or less okay. Truly, it seems it’s easier for him to focus his attention on Dean this time around.

Dean sighs, taking the seat closest to the bed. “A creaking door hangs the longest and all that,” he grumbles, trying to break the ice between them. There’s a lecture coming in his brother’s near future, but today is not the day. “But seriously, you look a lot better than when we found you.”

“You made it just in time, or so the nurses tell me,” Sam agrees, and some of the humor disappears from his eyes. “Dean, I’m so sorry. For running away, for making you worry, for getting trapped in a well.”

“Hey, hey. Look at me. You don’t have anything to apologize for. And we don’t have to talk about this now. You just have to focus on getting better, you hear me?”

Sam nods, then frowns. “Is Cas here? Or did I dream him? Because I saw a lot of things while I was down there that could have only been hallucinations.”

“No, he’s really here.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “I, uh, I went and asked for his help when I realized you weren’t picking up the phone. He refused, at first, of course, he did, but then he drove all the way out here on his own. Guess even my mistakes aren’t big enough to make someone not care about you, right?”

Sam’s eyes widen enough that Dean worries they might fall out of their sockets. “ _ You  _ went to Cas. Wow, I guess something came out of our last argument, huh?”

“Sammy.” Dean swallows, not sure he wants to steer the conversation back to  _ that  _ night, but he  _ is _ sure it won’t stop bothering him until he asks. “Was it because of our fight? Because I won’t believe, even for one second, that a chick like Ruby outsmarted you unless you were really distracted.”

“God, Dean, no,” Sam says, visibly horrified at the implication of Dean’s words. “No. I mean, yeah, fighting with you sucks, but you and I both know I was right—” his eyes flicker to the door at that, almost as if he expects Cas to step in at any second, “—and seriously, we argue almost every other week. If I was distracted by anything, it was the whole mess I had in my head lately, not our fight.”

“You mean…”

Jessica’s name hangs heavy between them. It’s Sam that breaks the silence, “I thought keeping myself busy would make things easier, but when I made it all the way out here and just helping Eve wasn’t enough, I figured I had to take a more active role. I started talking with people on my own, found Ava’s diary and hid it from the police, thinking I could get to the bottom of this by myself. I made all the rookie mistakes you told me time and time again not to do. 

“Ruby broke into my room, and I caught her going through my stuff. In the confusion we got our car keys mixed, so I chased her in her car. I was going too fast, and the car slid off the road. I fell in the well when I got out, and I blacked out. When I woke up, my phone was busted, and no one could hear me calling for help.” He takes a shuddering breath, and his eyes are misty when he opens them again. 

“I really thought that was it for me,” he confesses; Dean’s heart breaks in a thousand pieces. It bleeds and aches, and he still hasn’t heard the next thing Sam tells him. “I used to think dying couldn’t be much worse than the pain I was living through, but Jesus, I prayed so hard for someone to find me when I thought I was only a step away from it.”

“You’re safe now,” Dean promises him, his hands curling into fists at his lap. “They caught Ruby, too. I found Ava’s diary in your room, so you don’t have anything to worry about other than getting better.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam repeats for the hundredth time. 

“It’s okay,” Dean tells him. “It’s okay. We’ll get through this, together. When I was at my lowest you helped me up, and now it’s my turn to return the favor. It’s what Winchesters do.”

Sam makes a face, something between pain and recoil. “That didn’t go so well last time,” he says, carefully stepping around the subject of their father.

“Yeah, well. This time, I’ll have help,” Dean says, flushing at the look Sam turns on him. He clears his throat. “Um, Cas and I, we talked about some stuff, and we cleared a lot of things between us, and we think that we want to try again. I mean, it’s still complicated, but it’s a start, right?”

Sam smiles, some of the color returning to his face. “Dean, I’m happy for you. You deserve your happy ending.”

Feeling his ears burning, Dean ducks his head and scoffs. “It’s a little early to be talking about a happy ending, don’t you think? I mean we basically admitted that he’s an asshole and I’m a reclusive mess of anxiety. Not the best foundation for a relationship.”

“I know,” Sam says, settling back against his pillow more heavily. He looks lighter, somehow. “But I also know you and Cas, and I’m telling you, Dean, this is it for you. You just have to be patient long enough for me to recover, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Hey, I don’t want you out of my hair,” Dean tells him. “We’re family. And we’ll deal with this situation, your leg, everything, together. I have a very good therapist you can talk to, actually. The guy that recommended her to me is kind of a douche, but he researches that kind of stuff extensively, so you can trust him.”

“Is that a compliment?” Sam asks, breaking out in a grin. “I’ll mark the date on my calendar; it only took me almost dying for you to tell me something nice.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Never, jerk.”

And just like that, something unfurls inside Dean, a deep-rooted fear that has haunted him for the past few months lifts off his shoulders. Maybe they’re not okay yet, but they will be. 

Once Sam’s condition is more stable, the doctors schedule surgery for his ankle. 

They’ll have to stay in Nebraska for a couple more weeks, but Bobby made the trip over yesterday, so now they take turns keeping Sam company at the hospital. Sam claims Bobby’s grumbling is far better than Dean’s fussing, though Dean knows he much prefers Cas’ calm, collected approach to everything. 

Dean drives Cas back to their motel to get some much-needed rest while Bobby spends the afternoon watching soap operas with Sam on the small TV that is installed in his hospital room. 

Dean gets out of the bathroom, his skin red and raw from scrubbing himself clean in the shower, and Cas looks up from the bed. There’s something in his eyes that makes Dean pause.

“You okay?” he asks, reaching into his duffel bag for a change of clothes and trying to act cool. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Technically, you just did,” Dean says, mentally patting himself on the back for being a defensive little shit without even knowing what this is about.

Cas squints at him but doesn’t comment on Dean’s sassiness. “It’s not anything bad, I promise.” Then he adds, “I overheard you and Sam speaking back at the hospital when he first woke up. I didn’t mean to, but I was just getting back with your coffee and the door was still half-open, so…” he trails off, rubbing his right palm over his left fist awkwardly. 

Dean waits for him to just spit out whatever he has to say. 

“You said you and Sam had a fight the night he went missing. Was it about me?” 

Oh. 

Well, Dean should have seen this coming, he guesses.

He turns away, more out of embarrassment than annoyance, but Cas reads the motion wrong and is quick to apologize. 

“As I said, I didn’t mean to. I just happened to be passing by while you were talking about it.”

“Um, well, if you want to know the truth, we did,” Dean admits, heat quickly rising up his chest to color his cheeks. He glances over his shoulder at Castiel, and he looks just as nervous as Dean feels. Communication is a good thing, he reminds himself, and takes a deep breath. “I was telling him that being out here was not helping him get over Jessica, and he said that I was one to talk, considering the mess I’d made out of  _ us. _ Sammy knows where to aim when he wants to hurt me, but I have to give him that, he was right.”

“Right about what?” Cas asks.

“He’d told me a few months ago that he’d run into you, and you guys chatted, talked about you breaking up with the guy you were dating. He was pestering me about reaching out. To apologize and explain what had happened when we broke up,” he adds quickly. “He said he thought that you would understand if I told you about Dad, and he pretty much said the same thing that night, except much angrier and with a lot more insults thrown in.”

“Huh,” is all Castiel has as an answer to that, and Dean doesn’t have to look at him to know the exact thinking face he’s currently pulling. 

“To be honest,” Dean continues because since they are doing this  _ sharing _ thing he might as well go all in, “I’m not sure I would have come to you for help if Sammy and I hadn’t argued about you that night.”

Castiel nods, tilting his head to the side as he takes in all that information. Then he breaks into a mischievous grin, one of those that made Dean fall in love with him in the first place. “Your brother always did know better what’s best for you.”

Dean scoffs, sticking his tongue out at Castiel. “Very cocky of you to assume that what’s best for me is you.”

Castiel’s grin only spreads wider, but his eyes are warm as he gets up and pads across the room to wrap his arms around Dean. He’s warm and solid, and when he leans in to press a quick kiss against Dean’s lips, he still tastes of the pasta they had for lunch. “I’m not,” he says, tightening his arms around Dean, and his face turns serious. “Not yet. But I’ll work on it until I’m worthy of you. We both will.”

“You’re such a sap,” Dean teases him, though he not-so-secretly loves it. He lets Cas kiss him again, safe in the knowledge that he can have this. He really can have this. As soon as Sam is discharged, they have a long ride back home, and a long recovery journey ahead of them, but this time they’ll do it together. 


	20. Chapter 20

_ December 2020  
_ _ One year and three months found _

The key rattles, the lock clicks, and it’s over. Castiel stares at the closed door in front of him, stunned. A dozen contrasting emotions swirl in his head, but most of all, it’s anticipation. It’s  _ finally  _ and  _ took long enough. _ He’s talked with his landlord and arranged to drop his keys off in the mailbox, so it’s just him.  It’s better. He can say a proper goodbye, alone, this way.

He climbs down the stairs, a shoebox tucked under his armpit, a succulent holding on for dear life in the crook of his elbow. He’ll miss this place, but he’s excited for what’s ahead. Just four hours to go. 

Night is just beginning to ease its hold, and the air is heavy with humidity when he steps outside. The world holds its breath, waiting for the new day. 

Castiel can’t wait. 

He drops the box and the succulent in the passenger seat before walking around the car and sitting behind the wheel. His car cruises down the empty road, his old house no more but a speck in the distance behind it. With music blasting through the speakers, Castiel bobs his head to the rhythm.  It’s going to be a lovely day for a road trip. 

One song melts into the next, the car keeps swallowing mile after mile, and the sun finally breaks through the horizon. The rosy hue of the sky gives over to brighter crimson shades that make the shadows grow longer.  The world glows.  He passes by a traffic sign, but he barely looks at it. He doesn’t need to. He knows this road. He’s made this trip exactly forty-eight times in the past year—he’s been counting. He could drive it with his eyes closed. Though it’s probably safer if he didn’t. 

The rest of the world is slowly waking up when he makes a stop for breakfast three hours later. The diner is busy with the early morning rush, and Castiel just barely finds a seat at the counter. He orders pancakes and coffee and checks his phone.

Well, not everyone has woken up yet, he thinks at the no-message notification. It’s Sunday, after all. Doesn’t matter. Castiel will be there soon enough.

Despite brimming with anticipation, he savors his breakfast. He has two cups of coffee. He watches the people coming and going. Christmas is just around the corner, and one of the waitresses goes around refilling coffee in a Santa hat. Castiel likes that small festive touch. 

He’s about to pay when his phone screen finally lights up. It’s better than a simple message.

“Good morning. Did you leave already?”

Dean’s voice is still rough with sleep, and Cas can easily picture him in bed, face hidden among the pillows, eyes puffy and adorable. 

“Mmm. Just had breakfast and was about to get on the road again. Should be there in a couple of hours.”

“You’ve been driving for three hours already?” Dean asks, and he sounds a little more awake now. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“A little,” Castiel confesses. “I was too anxious for today, so I figured since I was up, I might as well go.”

“Good anxious, I hope,” Dean says.

“Of course.”

“I unpacked some of the boxes the movers brought yesterday. Just the ones with the books and clothes. The rest you can figure out on your own.”

“Eager?” Cas teases, though he’s secretly pleased.

“Hey, I’m just helping you out,” Dean says. “I can just as easily let you wrest your way through everything, if you’d rather do it alone.”

“No, it’s fine,” Cas says, unable to stop his smile. “You’re going to rearrange everything after I’m done anyway, so it’s better this way.”

“Damn right!” Dean is satisfied, and for a moment they sit in silence, enjoying the solidarity of hearing each other breathe. 

“Well, I don’t wanna keep you any longer,” Dean says finally, around a yawn. “Gotta hunt down some coffee myself, anyway.”

“I’ll call you when I’m almost there,” Cas tells him. 

“Don’t forget to call your parents, too,” Dean reminds him.

“I won’t,” Castiel promises. “See you soon.”

Another coffee and a phone call with his mother later, Cas is driving again. He steals a glance at his two fellow passengers. One of them sways with the car’s speed, leaves hanging on for dear life, while the other sits silently and unmoving. Those two are the only things he didn’t pack to send to Sioux Falls with the moving company. Plus a bag with a change of clothes, toiletries, and the sheets he slept in yesterday, but those were essential. The box and the pot are just too valuable to trust to anyone else. 

The scenery keeps changing around him. Fields turn to distant towns, to scattered houses, to the main road lined with shops. He drives up the hill to Bobby’s house because he knows Dean will probably be there now, not at the apartment above the garage. They’ll have time to go back there later.

He parks next to the Impala, careful to leave enough distance as to not cause Dean a heart attack. 

The front door creaks open, and Dean runs down the stairs to meet him. 

“Cas, you’re here,” he says, coming to stand close, to kiss him  _ welcome _ . “I thought you said you’d call when you were close.”

“I forgot,” Castiel says, lies. In truth he liked the idea of surprising Dean, even if it was just by a few minutes. “Will you take the bag from the trunk?”

“Sure.” 

Dean’s practically skipping when he meets Castiel by the front door again. His eyes fall on the succulent. 

“Oh, look, it’s the lone survivor.”

“Couldn’t leave it in Kansas, could I?” Cas asks. “It looked very lonely in my bathroom anyway.”

“We can put it in your office,” Dean says, taking the pot out of Castiel’s hands.

Castiel pauses. “My office?”

A gorgeous flash spreads over Dean’s cheeks. He licks his lips. “Yeah. It was going to be a surprise, but, uh, I guess, the cat’s out. I turned the spare bedroom into an office, since you’ll be working from home until you find a new newspaper and stuff.”

“You did that?” Castiel asked, heat spreading through his chest.

Dean kicks the floor. “I mean, I had to do  _ something _ while I was waiting for you these past two months.”

Castiel takes him by the elbow, and gently pulls him closer. They meet in the middle, a soft, careful touch of their lips that lingers maybe a second longer than intended. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“I hope you do,” Dean says. “Otherwise Bobby might kill you. He was cursing at me for a week after we carried the new desk up the stairs.”

“I’ll have to thank him, too, then,” Castiel says. “Is he inside?”

“Yeah, he’s with Sam. They’re doing a crossword puzzle.”

“So…”

“Breakfast and coffee, and then we head home?” Dean suggests. “Or second breakfast for you, I guess.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Castiel says and follows him inside. 

Bobby and Sam greet him warmly, and Dean drags a spare chair from the sitting room into the kitchen, so they can all squeeze around the small table. They ask Cas how his trip was, if all his stuff made it here in one piece—which Cas hasn’t had the time to check yet—and then ask him if he knows a four-letter word for oboe accessory. Castiel doesn’t.

Dean sets a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Castiel, before taking the seat next to him. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” 

Castiel stares down at his plate. Something’s missing. 

Dean seems to realize, too. “Oh, shit. Forgot to get you a fork and knife.”

“It’s fine,” Sam says, pushing his hair back to get up. “I’ll get it. I was gonna grab another cup of coffee, anyway.”

Bobby grumbles something that makes no sense to Castiel, but which Sam easily translates apparently, because he says, “Sure, I’ll get it for you.”

He walks to the sink to pour a glass of water, grab a knife and fork, and bring the pot of coffee back to the table. Castiel catches him slightly limping, but he knows it’s still early in the morning, and Sam’s foot probably still feels stiff from not moving all night. He’ll be able to move it better as the day passes.

“What are you guys planning for today?” Sam asks.

“Nothing,” Castiel answers for both of them. “Just settling in, unpacking. Do you guys wanna come over?”

“I’m going to be repairing the shed roof today,” Bobby says without looking up from his newspaper.

“And I have to prepare for court,” Sam answers. “I’ve been working on a big case. I told you about it, remember? Johnson vs Blake?”

“Oh, yeah. How’s that going?”

“Well, we have a very solid plan. I think we can win the lawsuit.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow in his direction. “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“That’s because the opposition is easy on the eyes,” Dean jumps in, speaking with his mouth full. 

“That’s crazy,” Sam says, clearing his throat. 

Dean kicks Castiel under the table. With his eyes he points at Sam’s red ears;  Castiel presses his thigh against Dean and digs into his breakfast. So far no one has questioned the contents of the shoe box, and Castiel is happy to leave it like that.

“Home sweet home,” Dean declares, throwing the door of his apartment open. He frowns. “Should I carry you inside?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and steps past him to drop his stuff off. “We’re not married,” he says. “And it’s not the first time I’m coming here, either.”

“It’s the first time you’re coming here to  _ live,” _ Dean says. He grimaces. “That doesn’t sound right. You know what I mean right?”

“Yes, Dean, I do. Don’t worry.”

A pile of boxes is stacked next to the couch, towering above the Christmas tree Dean has managed to squeeze in the corner of the room. Perfect, Castiel thinks as he leaves the shoe box on top of another box labeled  _ kitchen. _

Dean grabs Castiel by the wrist and turns him around. He grins, right in his personal space. “Finally, alone.”

“Us and all the boxes we have to unpack,” Castiel points out, snaking an arm around Dean’s waist. 

“They can wait,” Dean says, voice dropping lower. This time, there’s nothing sweet and soft about how Dean’s kissing Castiel. It’s full of intent, hard and fast, lips moving together without ever parting, tongues darting out to tease the other. 

Dizzy and breathless, Castiel pulls away for a second. His lower head screams and curses at him, but there’s something he has to do first.

“Gotta take a shower first,” Castiel says. “Wait for me in bed?”

“Or we could take a shower together,” Dean suggests, tracing the line of Castiel’s jaw with his mouth. 

Castiel groans, hips rocking forward, but he manages to put a hand between their bodies and separate them; even he is impressed with his self-control.

“I was driving for five hours,” he complains. “It’ll only take five minutes.” 

Dean pouts, but he steps away. “Fine. But you’re going to blow me as soon as you step into that room.”

“I was going to do that, anyway,” Castiel says. He only regrets it for a second as he watches Dean’s tempting ass walk away from him. His eyes fall on the shoe box. Time to put his plan in motion.

Dean traces circles with the tip of his finger over Castiel’s chest, their feet tangled under the rumpled sheets that pull around their waists. “I still can’t believe you moved here.”

“It was easier,” Castiel says, still basking in the post-orgasm glow. He has an arm wrapped around Dean, the other behind his head, and he thinks if he could spend the rest of his days like this, he’d be happy. “You have family here, and the garage. I can write books from anywhere and find newspapers to hire me in every city.”

Dean lifts his head, eyes sparkling. “Still, we lasted a whole year long distance.”

Castiel frowns. “You didn’t think we would?”

“I didn’t know  _ what  _ to think, back then,” Dean says. “I mean, there was a lot to take in.”

“Everything turned out well in the end, though,” Castiel says. 

They lie there for a while longer, until Castiel can’t wait any longer. He’d planned to wait until Dean discovered his surprise on his own, but he’s too giddy for that. Castiel will have to give him a little push.

“Will you get me a glass of water?”

“It’s your house, too, now,” Dean grumbles. “You’re not a guest, go and get it.”

“Technically, until I unpack everything, I' m  still a guest,” Castiel says, hoping Dean doesn’t call him out on his bullshit.

Dean scoffs. “You know what? You’re lucky you give good head, otherwise there was no way I’d be getting out of the bed right now.” He does get out of the bed, though.

Dean walks out of the room and towards the kitchen, which is right next to where the Christmas tree is. Castiel holds his breath.

Will Dean see it? Will he not? 

Dean returns a few seconds later without a glass of water. There is something small and silver in his hand, though. He holds it up.

Castiel grins.

“You kept this?” Dean asks, his voice laced with awe. “I didn’t see it on your tree last year, and I thought…”

“Of course I kept it,” Castiel says, watching the way Dean’s Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. “I just thought that it should be on  _ our  _ tree, not mine.”

Dean doesn’t speak. He strides to the bed, places the bee carefully on the bedside table, then climbs on top of Castiel, hands cupping his face. He bends down and kisses him to breathlessness.

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean and rolls them over. He’s content to take his time taking Dean apart, this time around. 

They have all the time in the world, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was a long one. This was a very special story for me, and I'm so happy that I finally get to share it with you guys. If you made it all the way to the end, let me now what you think in the comments. I always love reading your comments. 
> 
> Don't forget to check out the art for the story: [ AO3 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23700625) and [Tumblr ](https://whichstiel.tumblr.com/post/616022737184522240/this-art-was-created-for-kitmistry-s-pinefest), and shower Whichstiel with all your love and appreciation for all her hard work and beautiful art. You can find the fic masterpost [here](https://kitmistry.tumblr.com/post/616038334094016512/deancaspinefest-missing-explicit-93025). 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
